


A Demanding Heart

by goldenteaset



Category: Fate/Zero, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Aphrodisiacs, Bathing/Washing, Bisexuality, Cameos, Confessions, Erotic Massage, Eventual Sex, Exhibitionism, F/M, Foot Massage, Hand & Finger Kink, Hand Feeding, Kissing, M/M, Minor Injuries, Multi, Mythology References, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Relationship(s), Resolved Sexual Tension, Seduction, Self-Denial, Self-Discovery, Service Submission, Sexual Content, Sexual Fantasy, Slice of Life, Teasing, Throne of Heroes, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2019-04-17 23:34:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 57,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14200065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenteaset/pseuds/goldenteaset
Summary: Unexpectedly, Saber's debt to the World has been repaid. But the King of Knights has never known peace. And so, in this strange place of healing, she finds herself wishing to discover her desires.As luck would have it, she has company.AU after episode 15.





	1. A New Arrival

**Author's Note:**

> Behold: the closest thing to PWP I can currently get. ^^; 
> 
> This is the result of reading Fate route and going "...Wait a minute, so Saber has only had intimacy with women as a King/knight/masculine figure, right? So how would desire toward men look and feel to her?" (Aside from Shirou, whose romance with Saber is already covered.) 
> 
> ...And I also wanted to write something sexy with Gil/Saber/Diarmuid since the beginning. Why not do both? :D 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Fate/Zero.

Excalibur’s golden blade slices through Caster’s monster like dawn’s rays, and Saber’s heart feels a little lighter.

Now, the Grail War can continue without children being murdered. Now, she can take up her sword against worthy opponents once more. _And when the Grail is in my grasp at last, my fondest wish will finally be granted. My debt to the World will be cleared._

The stench of the monster’s slime wafts from her armor, and she winces in distaste. _But before all of that, I shall have a long, hot bath._

Just as she thinks this, as the light begins to dissolve—something strange happens. Her body grows heavy, and her eyes threaten to flutter shut. She forces herself to focus, stay awake; but her vision is covered in white, flickering flecks, as if she's trapped in a blizzard. _No—what is this? What’s happening…?!_

On the riverbank, Lancer’s existence is fading in and out as well. And on the bridge, Archer is having similar troubles.

Some innate part of her suspects this to be the World’s doing; the Grail wouldn’t let itself go unclaimed…would it?

Before she can figure out the answer, her vision turns black.

\---

Saber wakes with a start, instinctively shielding her eyes from the morning sun.

She sits up in bed and realizes that she slept in her suit last night. The slime from the monster seems to have vanished. When she lifts her sleeve to her nose to check, she smells only the usual scents of sweat and cotton. _How odd._

Something else prickles at the back of her mind. It feels as though she returned here after many months of traveling. Yet what transpired? Faintly, she can recall entering a cave deep within a mountain, something like a gleaming convent, women all in white…and something smooth and gold returning to their hands.

Saber rubs her throbbing temples. It’s as if she read a book with minuscule print by sputtering candlelight. _No matter. My contract with the World lets me flow through time in pursuit of my goal, so perhaps it’s a blessing my memories are faint._

The sunlight threatens to blind her again. She climbs out of bed, determined to shut the gauzy curtains and return to her rest. Her bare feet touch the floor, and a cold shock runs through them. It’s enough to make her want to burrow under the covers, but she keeps her eyes on her task.

Reaching the curtains, she shuts them firmly. There’s only a whisper of sound. The soft fabric ripples as she lets go, and its then that she notices something unexpected.

Trees. Fresh, spring-green oaks stand tall in the distance, and their branches wave as if to greet her. A lush meadow lies in the middle, stretching out in all directions. No matter which way she looks, Fuyuki’s gleaming metal buildings are nowhere to be found.

_Surely, I’m seeing things._ Saber rubs her eyes and looks again. The trees still stand.

She touches the windowpane and finds blown glass, warped slightly from the glassmaker’s breath. With a pounding heart, she looks around the room—and finds carved brownstone. The bed is of sturdy make, the mattress of cotton with blue bedding opulent by Saber’s tastes.

After searching some more, she finds her leather shoes with the socks folded neatly inside them at the foot of the bed. Good. Now her feet won’t turn to ice.

A simple fireplace is nestled in the center wall, in need of stoking if the faint wisps of smoke are any indication. Half in a daze, she tends it, watching the embers flicker back to life. Setting the fire poker down, she watches the flames’ bobbing shadows compete with the staid stillness of the morning light peering through the curtains.

It’s all so familiar, yet so different. Her past and future, melded together.

She could be in Avalon. But that feels…wrong, somehow. This place feels more akin to the mirror of Camlann she was summoned from, a peaceful rendition of it. _Then this must be The World’s doing. Is this some sort of test…?_

Her unease growing, she holds out a hand and waits for Excalibur to appear. Seconds pass: three, fifteen, thirty…and her fingers hold only air.

Something good occurs in that span of time: she senses two Heroic Spirits’ auras. The refreshing yet wild mana belongs to Lancer, without a doubt. The other, a lilting wave of ancient heat, can only belong to…

“… _Archer_ ,” she hisses, and storms to the oaken door.

She nearly shoves it off its hinges. No matter. All she wants right now is to retrieve Excalibur from Archer’s grasp.

She’s about to cross the threshold when she bumps into Lancer, bringing a wicker cart to her door.

Still in his armor, he’s dressed down, baring his muscled arms and a bit of his chest. The scent of apple scones, fresh from the oven, wafts through the air.

“It’s a pleasure to see you awake and unharmed, Saber,” Lancer says with an easygoing smile.

“I could say the same of you, Lancer,” she replies, and smiles back. Then concern prods at her mind. “Earlier, you seemed to fade…are you well?”

Lancer nods, though he’s quick to change the subject. “Are you hungry, by any chance?”

Saber remembers what she’s doing here in the first place and takes a hot scone. “I shall eat while I walk. Have you seen Archer?” She lets a growl seep into her voice.

Lancer frowns at her as she takes a huge, angry bite of sweet apple and thick, fluffy pastry. “…Alas, I have no idea.”

She swallows, nearly choking, and takes a smaller bite this time. Now she can appreciate the flavor better. “I sensed him just now.”

“Oh, I see. Yes, he _did_ arrive here with us.” Lancer glances away for a moment, looking a little ashamed. “In truth, I only sensed your presence a short while ago.”

Saber opens her mouth to ask him why, a spark of annoyance threatening to flare in her chest. But Lancer is the only ally she has in this strange land, and she can’t risk losing him over something trivial. Her anger is directed inward in the first place.  _He came to my side—that’s all that matters._       

Her shoes tap rhythmically against the stone floor. “Walk with me,” she says, the order coming easily to her lips. “This castle seems familiar, yet I can’t place it. Where _is_ ‘here’, pray tell?”

Lancer’s boots barely make a sound as he meets her stride. The cart rolls leisurely behind him; the wheels are of good make, well greased and sturdy. He doesn’t answer her at first—she can almost feel the reluctance wafting off him.

_He must know this place._

She lets him gather his thoughts and continues eating her scone. “You should eat as well, Lancer,” she says, in case he’s holding back.

“Oh, thank you, Saber—but there’s no need. I sated my hunger on the way here.”

Saber looks at him over her shoulder and smiles. “That is good.”

The morning sun pools through the windows, making dust motes glint in their path. There’s a strange scent in the air. It’s like an apple orchard but stronger, more _lush._ It’s somewhere between nostalgic and otherworldly, almost as if…

_…As if we are in the Fair Folk's realm._ The thought chills her to her bones.

“Saber, are you ill?” Lancer asks, stopping with one hand outstretched to comfort her.

Her feet slow to a stop. “No—well, perhaps. This place brings to mind the Fair Folk; on second thought this is too simple for them. In any event...I seem to have arrived here unannounced and without my knowledge.”

A soft chuckle. “Consider me the greeting party, then. I must say, seeing you without Excalibur is a strange sight.”

Saber’s hand clenches into a fist. “I plan to rectify that.” She notes Lancer’s hands are empty as well. “I take it you’re unable to summon your spears, either.” At Lancer’s nod, her heart sinks in her chest. “We will retrieve them, on my honor—”

Lancer rests his elbow on the cart handle, remarkably at ease for an unarmed knight. “—Forgive me, but that may not be necessary, Saber.”

Saber bristles at the suggestion. “So we should do nothing? Archer is still our enemy!”

But something deep inside of her objects to that. It doesn’t take long to find out why: whereas she entered the Grail War filled with the desire to kill the Servants in her way, now she feels nothing of the sort. It’s as if her heart’s a pitcher; stagnant anger has been dumped out and refilled with something cool and refreshing. _The Grail War must have concluded—but who won?_

Lancer sighs and stares out the window. The sun glints in his dark hair and makes his skin glow like the moon. “When I awoke here, I felt the bond Lord Kayneth and I shared wither away to nothing. The Grail War must have ended abruptly.”

Saber concentrates, searches inside herself for Kiritsugu’s flowing mana, and comes up short. “Yes, I feel the same. But I”—she nearly reveals her secret—“I wonder why the World would place us here?”

Lancer glances downwards and to the side, a gentle smile on his face. “Do you not recognize the Throne of Heroes? Hmm…you just awoke, so perhaps that’s to be expected.”

Her heart gives a sickening jolt. “The…Throne, you said?”

“Yes. To be more precise, it’s a ‘sub-section’ of it. Think of it as a place of healing; it will return our weapons to us in time.”

She opens her mouth to speak, but her silence has already given away too much. _That’s impossible. My pact with the World must still remain. Unless…have I died?_

Saber braces her hands on the cart. Her knees tremble. Her stomach churns and bobs in grotesque imitation of a sailboat in a storm. She’s so used to living on the verge of death—how could she have passed on without her knowledge?

Lancer is at her side in an instant, disquiet in his bronze eyes. “Saber, you’ve turned pale. Sit for a moment.”

“There has been a mistake,” she says in a hushed tone, acutely aware of her pounding heart, “a terrible mistake.”

A steady, gentle hand rests on her shoulder, eases her back down onto a nearby wooden bench. “I beg of you, _sit_. Allow me to aid you.”

Her vision still swimming, Saber nods and follows Lancer’s instructions as best she can. The bench dips beneath his weight as he sits next to her, rubbing her back in slow, soothing circles. His body heat seeps through the layers of clothing to warm her skin.

“Now,” Lancer murmurs, “You cannot claim this reaction comes from humility. As King of Knights—no, as _King Arthur_ —you belong in the Throne of Heroes.”

She can’t bring herself to look at him. Not yet. Breathing slowly, fighting past the bile threatening to fill her throat, she struggles to find the words. How to explain her circumstances? How to comprehend this strange sensation inside her, this overwhelming storm of confusion?

There’s nothing else for it. She needs to tell him.

With a sigh, Saber forces her head to turn and look Lancer in the eyes. “On my final battlefield, moments before my death, I struck a bargain with the World.”

“I see. What was the bargain?”

Archer will hear of this one way or another. That doesn’t matter right now. She needs answers. And—though she hates to admit it—reassurance as well.

Pushing back memories of Rider’s banquet, she says “I would search for the Grail, redo my reign as Britain’s King, and in return I would eventually die and become an Heroic Spirit.”

Lancer tilts his head to one side and frowns. “And yet, something must have changed. Can you not sense that?”

“…I can.” She raises a hand to her heart. “At some moment in time, I must have found a different conclusion.”

Lancer listens without a word, his eyes dark with worry. Perhaps he’s comparing her experiences with his, searching for a connection.

Then comes a point when she stumbles. “…When I awoke, I felt as though I had arrived here after a long journey. Aside from the Fourth War, which is strangely clear, my memory is hazy.” She wracks her brain, trying to recall. “There was a cave…a glittering convent…and a crowd of veiled women…who took back something I returned to them.”

Lancer turns his head to gaze into the distance, his cowlick bouncing with his movements. “Did it feel as if you were reading a tale of another’s life?”

Saber’s taken aback. “—Yes, that’s it exactly.” She leans forward, her heart a little lighter. “Have you felt it as well?”

Lancer smiles. “Yes. It’s a common sensation among Heroic Spirits who have been summoned elsewhere. Or ‘else-when’.”

“…But that makes no sense.”

“True—that is, not in your usual circumstances. However, it’s possible that ‘your usual circumstances’ no longer apply.”

Saber begins to understand; she stays seated, still not trusting her body to hold her up. “Then, you mean…I truly became a Heroic Spirit?”

That makes sense. During her travels through time—perhaps in that convent—her regrets began to fade, and she returned to her deathbed peacefully. It’s likely she found the Grail and then returned it, as she no longer needed it. And the World considered the contract fulfilled.

Her heart slows back to a normal rhythm; her body reorients.

Lancer looks back to her, brimming with confidence. “Yes. You can rest easy.”

Saber chuckles softly. “…I’m afraid that will take some adjusting to.”  

“Which must be why you’re here.” Lancer shrugs and pulls back his hand from her shoulders. “The same applies for Archer and I. The Fourth War must have strained us to the breaking point."

Saber wonders whether to ask why and decides against it. She was never good at soothing  wounds, her own or others'. It's best to leave the Fourth War in the past where it belongs.

Suddenly Lancer smiles; it could light the darkest cave. "Regardless, the World has its reasons. I enjoy spending time with you too much to pry into them.”

They spend a while longer in companionable silence, the atmosphere regaining its previous calm. The sun warms Saber’s back, glints like topaz in Lancer’s hair. Saber’s mind begins to push her death into the farthest corners, where it should be. Besides, this castle is a more pressing curiosity.  

“Thank you for listening,” Saber says, allowing fondness to enter her voice. “You have a kind heart, Lancer.”

Lancer blinks in surprise—is that a flush covering his face? He smiles in obvious relief. “Thank you, King of Knights!”

Saber smiles back and presses a hand over her heart. “It’s nothing. Now, I should like to explore this castle—will you guide me?”

“Gladly.”

\---

It turns out that castles, even in different lands, have certain similarities.

A moat surrounds the castle, with pure and clear water visible from the battlements. The Keep still looms above the rest of the structure, like a round, squat old soldier overseeing his men. When Saber peers out from one of the windows, she can see the inner courtyard; with the green grass and flat ground, it’s the perfect place to train soldiers or hold a tournament. In the outer court, the animals graze and the orchards flourish. (To create a familiar illusion, one supposes.)

“There’s a library as well,” Lancer says, having left the breakfast cart by the Kitchens. “I’ve never seen one so well-stocked! Truly, this castle overflows with luxuries.”

But something bothers Saber. “Are there any servants about? A castle this luxurious needs constant upkeep…”

“Ah, yes, but things are different here. Everything simply…tends itself. That is, unless we wish otherwise.”

Saber slips her hands into her pockets and spies a candle’s wax spilling out of its iron holder. (Another oddity—torches were more common in her time.)

“That is too suspicious to ignore.” She looks back at Lancer. “We should investigate it.”

“If you wish,” Lancer says easily, resting his back against a sun-warmed wall. “I'm afraid the answer is simple. It isn’t the Fair Folk’s mischief—in fact, it’s a gift of the Throne of Heroes. Everything here is for our comfort.”

“But _why?_ ”

Lancer shrugs one shoulder and opens the window’s latch. Crisp morning air flows inside. “Because we spend our time ‘outside’ fighting the World’s battles until our mission is completed. We need a momentary rest.”

Saber supposes that makes sense, and can only nod in response. Lancer looks off into the distance, pondering something. The wind rustles his curls, making them tumble about his rosy face and neck. When not combed back, his hair could fall into his eyes, obscuring his vision in battle and costing him his life.

_Guinevere would adore him in her quiet way. Morgan would praise him without shame._

Saber’s fingers twitch. Sudden, foolish yearning strikes her for something beyond her reach. _Stop that._   _He may be a knight, but he is not mine._

“You needn’t accompany me everywhere,” Saber says after a long moment. “Especially if you have something else you wish to do…”

Lancer’s chuckle rolls across the hall like a ripple in a lake. “Very well, King of Knights! I shall take my leave of you…for the moment.”

Saber watches Lancer stride away with growing fondness. He is a great warrior, one she would’ve regretted killing on the battlefield. Now that the Grail War’s done…perhaps they can have truly honorable conduct. If she can keep selfish fancies at bay.

She walks down one hall, then another, and finds herself outside, on a stairway to the courtyard. _Fascinating…there are scuffmarks from warriors past. Or are they from Lancer?_

Just across from her lies what must be the wife’s quarters. It’s an odd duck among the rest of the castle: a two-story building of mud brick and a red-lacquered roof, almost a second Keep. Its location (where the bakehouse should be) is stranger still. 

She pauses to admire it. The sight of the flowered vines twisting along the walls, crimson blossoms in full bloom, the balcony meant for excursions by moonlight, the fragrance of spring in the morning air…it brings back such bittersweet memories. _Guinevere and I had our wedding night in similar quarters. She was so patient, even as a fumbled about in an un-kingly manner…_

Guinevere was not much older than Saber when they wed. Saber remembers clearly the way her bride trembled in her arms, how Guinevere’s long red curls framed her flushed face and delicate shoulders as she unpinned her hair. The sky-blue stays took forever to loosen, and Saber’s fingers twitch at the memory.

Guinevere may have been unable to desire Saber as a husband, but she held no ill will toward her either. As for Saber, well…she knows desire well enough. In the end, she did her best to make Guinevere’s duty a pleasure. And Merlin's "wedding gift" was good for _something_. 

_Even after Lancelot…and Morgan…I still cherish that night._

Saber’s foolish reminiscing inevitably gets interrupted. Her mind seems to stutter at the sight before her.

Archer strolls onto the balcony, the white robe wrapped around him swaying as he walks. She can see a second, dark blue layer underneath, which she can’t see the point of—half of his bronzed chest is brazenly exposed. He doesn’t notice her.

_…Which must be a lie. He wouldn’t last five seconds in a battle otherwise._ She stays where she is.

Archer hums to himself, slicking his hair up with practiced fingers. Golden armbands and pendant earrings gleam brilliantly in the sun. (His gaudiness is eternal, it seems.) He still hasn’t acknowledged Saber.

Which isn't _disturbing_ , necessarily. It merely brings to mind tales of romance. Of gallant knights spying maidens behind walled gardens, both pierced by love's arrow at first glance. _As if this tyrant knew or cared about courtly love..._  

Just as suddenly as Archer arrived, he leaves without a backward glance. His hips sway and slink, drawing the eye like a finely-cut gem. _Not unlike how Morgan moved...no. I mustn't think of such things._

In the depths of the wife's quarters, a door closes with a whisper.

She figures that that’s the end of it, and debates performing reconnaissance. She shoos the idea away. _Knowing Archer, he has a trap there waiting for me. I will_ not _fall for it!_

Still, she can’t help but wonder where Archer’s off to.

\---

The rest of the day passes uneventfully. Saber and Lancer enjoy a hearty dinner in the Great Hall by a huge roaring hearth, pressing close despite being the only ones there. (The lack of a dais provides an excuse.) She devours three helpings of glazed pheasant and sliced potatoes, and washes it down with some of the crispest apple cider she’s ever tasted.

(She’s not going to drink alcohol while Archer and his snide remarks are lurking about. He could turn wine to vinegar with his mere presence.)

Speaking of whom...

“I saw Archer today,” Saber says, pushing away her cleaned plate with a satisfied sigh. “For some reason, he was in the wife’s quarters.”

A discrete yet noticeable pause.

“As the sole occupant, he must have been disappointed,” Lancer replies dryly, his mug of cider halfway to his lips.

“Hm. That’s not _quite_ it.” She watches the crackling fire. Sparks _pop_ and _hiss_ before fading away. “He seemed to be either making preparations for some event, or admiring his own body.” She grimaces. “Possibly both.”

There’s a faint _clunk_ as Lancer sets his mug on the huge oak table. “Did he do anything else?”

Saber shakes her head. “No, he simply walked away. It’s possible he never sensed my presence.”

“But unlikely.” Lancer shifts his weight, and the bench they’re sitting on _creaks_ softly. “If I may…perhaps it’s best to leave him be, for now.”

Saber pats her full belly with contentment. “Yes—I have nothing to say to him to begin with.”

Lancer raises an eyebrow and grins. “I see now. You want to keep this fine food for yourself!”

She smiles and extends a hand to him. “I will gladly share it with you. If Archer’s attitude were to improve…I’ll reconsider.”

“Heh. Duly noted.”

Time passes in more idle conversation. Outside, the first stars shyly glow to life. Even here, their positions remain the same.

Saber hides a yawn behind her hand. “Excuse me. I’d best return to my chambers, before I fall asleep at the hearth!”

Lancer places a hand over his heart and bows with a smile. “It was a pleasure to dine with you, Saber. Pleasant dreams.”

“And for you as well,” she replies, nodding in acknowledgement.

Before she leaves the Great Hall, she notices that Lancer is still sitting by the fireplace, drink in hand. As if he’s waiting for someone.


	2. Permission Granted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Saber learns the importance of communication.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's an extra-long chapter, due to how long this took to finish. (Fight scenes and sex scenes are equally tricky to write/edit, to no one's surprise.) 
> 
> Also: Saber finally graced my Chaldea with her presence! \0/ Turns out all she wanted was a fic of her own + a threesome + a YOLO roll. (I know it's just coincidence, but it made me laugh when it happened)

Saber’s already growing used to this castle—she finds her chambers within moments. Despite what the bards claimed, she and her court didn’t spend _all_ their time at Camelot. Early on in her rule, she learned to map out every castle and fort in her mind.

She chuckles at a memory of visiting Guinevere’s home for the first time. _Guinevere insisted on escorting me about the castle, long after I memorized every walkway. And there were many treacherous staircases that required my arm…_

Even now, Saber can almost feel the warmth of her wife’s hand on her elbow. She rubs at her arm distractedly.

 _I’ll take a bath, first._ She pushes open the door with weary hands. The bedroom’s as it was when she first awoke. Except for one adjustment: a cast-iron tub stands by the crackling fireplace, with steam rising from the water. A wood rack of white towels stands beside the tub, ready for use. _Lancer was right—our comfort_ is _the castle’s first priority. As I sense no danger, I shall accept it._

Saber has only allowed herself to feel comfortable twice. In both cases, they came back to haunt her. She won’t let her guard down this time. (Even though by all accounts she should.)

She wanders over to the ornately carved wardrobe she hasn’t peered into yet. This will make a good test for how the Throne of Heroes works. _I need something comfortable to sleep in, not too warm or too cold._

Her fingers curl around the wardrobe’s small doorknob; she pulls it open.

Saber peers inside. She sighs in disappointment.

In case the castle can “see”, she gestures to the bed sheets and quilts folded and stacked neatly atop each other. She can smell the musk of fur pelts deeper inside.

Nothing changes.  

“These are blankets,” she says aloud. “Useful, but not what I wanted.”

Perhaps she needs to speak aloud?

“Let’s try this again,” she says, and closes the door. “I need tunics, preferably cotton in this weather.” She opens the wardrobe again, and smiles in satisfaction. “Well done, castle.”

Row after row of long white tunics hang before her, and each feel soft and smooth to the touch. Out of curiosity, she opens one of the drawers at the bottom of the wardrobe. In a pleasant surprise, a supply of modern-day underwear is folded inside. _Irisviel was right, they_ are _more comfortable than the garments of my time._

Now that that’s settled, she can finally have her bath. She takes off her suit with great care—it’s a gift from a lady, she can do no less.

With a slight shiver at the cool air against her skin, Saber strides over to the tub and steps into it. A sigh escapes her lips as she sinks down. The warm water envelops her body up to her neck. From this angle, she has a lovely view of the rising sickle moon outside; its pale light glides through the curtains like molten diamond.

_…Morgan described it that way._

Her knees curl in on themselves, and her head dips to her chest.

“Morgan,” she murmurs, the name still weighing her down with regrets. 

She hasn’t looked at her body directly since that night. Irisviel’s compliments and Archer’s remarks at the banquet brought the memories back full-force. And now, once again…

_“…You look so beautiful in the moonlight, your Majesty. Ah, forgive me, that was improper!”_

_“You flatter me, Lady Morgan. Truly, the moonlight was made for you.”_

Saber bites her lip as her body tingles at the memory. _Blonde hair the color of honey, eyes as dark as wine._ Her mouth begins to dry.

Saber still had Merlin’s “wedding gift”, and the Mage claimed Guinevere was with child. So, Saber’s foolish mind thought, drunk on the beautiful woman at her side, as long as she didn’t enter enchanting, voluptuous Morgan—who acted so modest yet desired King Arthur so desperately—then all would be well.

In Saber’s imagination, Morgan’s breath ghosts across her neck, and her breasts are heavy and soft in Saber’s hands. Then…

_I let myself be taken in by sweet words and hot limbs, and I received a bastard in return._

She turns her mind to Guinevere, avoiding the guilt.

Guinevere blossomed into a beauty to rival Morgan, and in the early days (after Morgan, after that mistake) Saber considered it her duty to pleasure her wife without regard for her own desires. Not that it helped in the end. 

Saber sighs from deep in her chest and begins cleaning herself properly. The water will grow cold soon.

As she steps out of the bath and into the chill air, that old familiar guilt comes crawling back. She must not allow such selfishness, such _misconduct_ to happen again. As the King of Knights and of Britain, she must keep her pride—even at the cost of her desires.

…Then she reconsiders. _My role as King of Britain has ended to my satisfaction. I have no people to protect, no Grail to seek. I can do what I wish, when I wish it._

_But what do I wish to do?_

The emptiness of that thought gnaws at her.

\---

The next morning, the sky is the color of steel, the looming clouds pregnant with rain. As such, breakfast is quieter than last night’s dinner. Saber doesn’t mind. It’s peaceful, rather than the strained silence she and Guinevere inflicted on each other.

“Saber?” Lancer’s voice jolts her out of her thoughts. “I just asked if the library interested you..”

Saber mulls it over. Despite Merlin's efforts, she was never a woman of learning. And tales were for hearing, not reading. However, she can’t deny she enjoys touring the castle with Lancer. _And perhaps I can find some entertainment there_ …

Saber finishes the last spoonful of honey-sweetened porridge and nods. “Your presence could make any place interesting.”

Lancer glances away, humbled. “Is that so? Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She stands with a smile. “Shall we go?”

Lancer stands and bows with a hand over his heart. “Allow me to escort you.”

In the end, the library isn’t far from the Great Hall. The tower opposite the hall houses it, and so they travel along the veranda without fuss. The lamps light their way, glowing even brighter in this weather. The rain has yet to fall.

“You mentioned the library before,” Saber says from beside Lancer. “What sort of books does it hold?”

He thinks it over, his elbow almost brushing hers. “A staggering amount to a man like me. Let’s see, now…” He counts with his fingers. “…Histories, mythologies, tales of romance, the odd instruction manual…those are the shelves I’ve discovered so far. But as you’ll see, I have no doubt there are more to discover.”

They reach the tower. Saber admires the flowering vines draping themselves along its length like garlands, or a maypole’s ribbons. A painted plaque above the squat door says “LIBRARY” in eye-catching blue.

Saber gestures to the plaque. “Interesting. It seems they needed to specify—what do the other towers hold?”

“Nothing much of note, I’m afraid.” Lancer clears his throat, his expression unsure. “Er…Saber. Before we enter, there’s something you must know. I believe Archer is here.”

Saber furrows her brows. “…Why are you so wary?”

Lancer lets out an awkward chuckle. “Well, I need due warning if I’m to prevent a brawl. Or rather, if the _Throne of Heroes_ will.”

“What do you—oh.” She recalls the distance between her and Archer yesterday, how she never saw him again after that. “Has the Throne kept us separate until now?”

Lancer nods. “Archer and I…did not get along at first. As a result, this castle ensured our paths never crossed until our tempers had cooled.” He smiles wryly. “Well. I myself kept you far from Archer’s quarters yesterday during our walk. Since he… _vexed_ you when you awoke.”

Saber folds her arms over her chest and frowns. “Did you do so even when we parted ways?”

Lancer shakes his head, looking more at ease. “As I said, the Throne can handle such things better than I. And I had a book of grand adventure to finish.” He inclines his head toward the door. “So, shall we enter and see where chance takes us?”     

In response, Saber grips the iron doorknob and pulls. The chill of the knob’s metal seeps through her leather gloves.

As the door opens, a cocoon of warm air greets them; Lancer eagerly steps inside, rubbing his bared arms. Saber follows after. Closing the door behind her, she turns her attention to this library she’s heard so much about.

The scents of ink, old paper and fresh leather saturate the air.

Her head tilts up…and up…and up. All she can do is stare.

A brownstone staircase spirals all the way to the top of the tower, with huge circular landings placed here and there as stopping points for each floor. And if the lower floors are any indication, each landing has a huge shelf crammed full to bursting with leather-bound books. Wall lamps glow with golden light like small suns, from the lowest level to the highest.

As Lancer said, this is a library beyond any Saber’s seen before.

“I will be on the second floor, Saber,” Lancer stage whispers, already climbing. “If you need anything, tell me.”

“Thank you,” Saber whispers back, already overwhelmed with choices. _…The first floor seems the safest option. I can explore the rest another day._

Thus decided, Saber starts browsing. As her reading habits were most often treatises and letters, it takes effort to commit to “idle” books. Some titles that _sound_ interesting turn out dull as dishwater, while others have dull titles but ultimately intrigue her.

At last, her gaze lingers on a book long enough for her to pick it up. Saber’s well acquainted with “The Care and Feeding of Horses”, but for some reason an ache blossoms in her heart just reading the title.

Taking a seat in a plush chair close to the staircase, Saber opens the horse book and marvels. The leather binding makes such a crisp crackling sound when opened, and the pages are smooth as silk against her hand. _It’s as if this book was recently printed._ And the paintings…it seems artists in her time had only scratched the surface of recreating life. These horses of watercolor and charcoal, oil and ink, look as though they could walk out of the pages.

Time passes in a gentle haze. Memories of bygone days bubble up from the depths of her mind, bittersweet and nostalgic. Hours spent wiping the frothing lather from Sir Ector’s mounts after a ride. How they would lip her hair affectionately after she combed their manes...

Ultimately it’s too much to bear. She sets the book down at the midway point to finish another day.

Then.

“ _My honey-sweet one, my honey-sweet one/From a distance alone, your charms have transfixed me…_ ”

Saber glances up at the sounds of footsteps and low singing. The melody is strange to her ears; somewhere between sultry and plaintive. It must come from a far away land. So she’s unsurprised to find the source.

Archer’s fingers curl around the wooden bannister as he walks down the stairs, his sandals whispering against the stone. Judging by the rustling sounds, he’s carrying an armful of scrolls. The soft-spoken song lilts and dances down to her ears, the singer sick with unfulfilled desire. 

Saber sighs. _I suppose I should see what he wants._ Standing and rubbing her stiff neck, she creeps over to the staircase. _I’ll stay underneath it, out of sight._ For some reason, she doesn’t want to interrupt him.

“ _…I have rubbed my body with oils for you/Draped my neck in jewels for you—_ ah!” Three scrolls spill over the stairs and tumble to the floor at Saber’s feet.

Lancer’s voice suddenly stage whispers from the second level: “Archer, are you hurt?”

“Not at all,” Archer calls back, “I merely lost my footing and my scrolls.” Then, softer, “Regardless, I appreciate your concern.” 

“I see…thank you.” Lancer sounds strangely pleased. 

Confused, Saber reaches down to scoop up the scrolls. The first two scrolls are easy enough, resting either at her toes or just behind her feet. But the third seems determined to roll off to hide in darkened corners. With a Servant’s speed she catches it in time. _These are very fragile; that fool should be more careful!_ It’s hard to tell what’s written in them at a glance…if anything.

_Now then—shall I toss these up to him, or wait for him to come down? His song is already ruined regardless…_

Still considering her options, she straightens up—and finds a sandal-clad foot in front of her face. The sandal dangles freely from Archer’s toes, showing off an elegant sole unmarred by callouses. His other leg must be folded beneath him to affect a casual air.

“Is that you, Saber?” Archer asks, his foot swaying back and forth.

Sighing, Saber sidesteps the foot and moves out from under the staircase. Now she can look at him properly—for what it’s worth.

“…Good day, King of Heroes.”

“Yes, it _does_ seem to be going well, isn’t it? Even with the dreary weather.” Archer cocks his head to one side and grins. “What good fortune you happened by when I lost my footing.”

His hands rest on the banister, with a few more scrolls lying in his lap. Miraculously, his long-sleeved white tunic actually suits today’s weather. Then again, the fabric is too tight around the chest. And the delicate bloodstone necklace and earrings would never withstand a storm.

“Saber,” he tastes her name, “you seem distracted. Are you well?”

“Of course.”

Archer wiggles his toes. “Good. Lancer would be most disappointed otherwise.”

Saber forces her eyes to focus on his face, rather than the snakeskin trousers that mold perfectly to his legs. “…That is…very kind of you,” she says warily. “You seem different, compared to during the Grail War. What changed?”

“You no longer intend to steal from me.” It’s said bluntly, more in line with the Archer she first met. Then his tone grows gentle, teasing: “And it’s clear you prefer a soft touch, as it were.”

Not knowing how to reply, she looks down at the scrolls. “Here. You dropped these.”

“Hmm, so I did. I must praise your efforts, Saber.”

Archer unhooks a hand from the banister and takes the scrolls from her one by one, placing them in his lap. Their fingers never touch. Each time he reaches down, she catches a whiff of a light sweetness that she can’t place. Like roses, or citrus.

When Archer’s fingers take hold of the third scroll, they happen to brush feather-light across Saber’s before pulling back.   

“There,” he says, sending the scrolls into a gold portal before gliding to his feet. “Now everything is in order.”

Saber heads for the bottom of the stairs to meet him. _…So those_ were _his. Why would he allow another to touch his treasures? Not that it’s any concern of mine…_

Archer briefly vanishes from view behind the last spiral. “I never considered you a lover of books, Saber.” He reappears, taking the last few steps at a leisurely pace. “Yet _something_ caught your attention.”

They stare at each other: Archer from the third step, Saber from the floor. The silence is almost stifling.

Saber clenches her jaw. She grabs the smooth banister and marches right into Archer’s space, cornering him against the bannister. “Lancer invited me. I accepted his invitation. What more needs to be said?”

Archer smiles mischievously. “Oh? I see. Then _Lancer_ caught your interest.” His eyes glitter. “Your taste is commendable, Saber.”

Saber narrows her eyes, knowing she’s missing something here. She decides to change the subject: “As Lancer found something to read, so did I.”

The distraction works wonders. Archer strolls down the stairs and over to her chair. “Is this it on the table?”

Saber follows after him, determined to keep him from losing her place. “Yes. I daresay it would only bore you, King of Heroes.”

Archer chuckles. “Really, Saber. If you wish me to keep your place, you need only say so.” He leans over the table, reading the cover. “‘The Care and Feeding of…’ I see. Are you fond of horses, Saber?”

Saber folds her hands behind her back, as Sir Ector used to. “They are excellent beasts of burden. They aided me many times, whether in war or peacetime.”

“I can say the same—chariots need horses to pull them, after all.” With exaggerated care, Archer cracks open the book and starts skimming. “This artist seems to tap into the horse’s charms.” He lowers the book to let her see. “Like this grey stallion here, rearing up to strike the mongrel set to tame him.”

“He seems more intimidating than charming,” she says, turning back a few pages. “When I was a squire, I would tend to the horses each morning. This brown one looks like Eto—he was my favorite.”  

Archer nods in appreciation and traces the horse’s huge muscled back with a finger. “And why was that?”

“I cared for him since he was a foal.” She smiles at the memory. “He loved to be brushed, and so you could say I spoiled him a little. Sir Ector allowed it—as long as I remembered he would become a warhorse in the end…”

She falters. Not because there’s little else to say, but because Archer seems unexpectedly interested. It’s surreal to see him gazing at her without malice, just open curiosity.

And they’re close enough that she can feel the heat of his body against hers. His bottom lip is very full, almost as plump as a woman’s.

Her throat turns dry.  

“What’s wrong?” he asks gently. There’s a hint of teasing to his voice. “Continue with your talk.”

She steps back a pace, hoping he won’t see the flush prickling across her skin.

Above her head, she can hear Lancer heading downstairs at last.

Saber decides this is the best time to state her position on certain matters. “Thank you, but no. Until I receive an apology for your actions at the banquet—an _honest_ apology—your charms will fail you. Is that clear, Archer?”

Archer's brows furrow deeply. He stares off into the distance, mulling it over. Then he nods, his features smoothing out into their usual serenity. “Quite clear, Saber.” 

Nothing about his voice or posture suggests he’s lying.

“Good.” Saber turns on her heel and meets Lancer by the door.

“Shall we be off, Saber?” Lancer asks, his measured gaze scrolling to Archer. His lips have a slightly swollen appearance.

“Yes, thank you.” Saber tosses one last remark over her shoulder: “Enjoy your scrolls, Archer.”

Archer’s laughter floats out the library door after her, tickling her heels.

“Forgive me,” Lancer says disappointedly, shutting it behind him. “I should have come down sooner.”

“There was no need,” Saber assures him, as shards of sunlight flicker through the clouds. “Thanks to you, he was on his best behavior.”

Lancer’s crooked smile eases her mind. “I should hope so—you deserve no less.”

Flustered, Saber can’t help but notice his lips again. “Your lips look redder than usual. Did something happen?”

Lancer lifts slender fingers to his lips, tracing them. Then he shrugs and lets his hand fall. “No, nothing out of the ordinary.”

Saber takes him at his word.

\---

Days pass.

She and Lancer wander the castle grounds and find time to spar in the training area tucked away in the courtyard. When they need to go their separate ways, they do so without fuss. They eat together during meals, and the food tastes better with each conversation. She continues to politely ignore her companion’s boundless charms, how his laughter lifts her spirits better than any wine.

With Archer keeping his distance, Saber should be more at ease.

But she can’t relax her guard. Not when she knows instinctively that something’s going on.

\---

One grey, rainy morning, they finish their breakfast of steaming, plump sausages and apple-filled porridge and prepare to go spar. By happenstance, Saber’s a step behind Lancer, and sees a strange reddish-brown mark peering from under his collar.

“Lancer, there’s something on your neck,” she says with a frown. “I don’t think it’s a bug.”

Lancer’s fingers feel about his nape and find the mark. “Ah, perhaps I…have more moles than I thought.”

“I see,” Saber murmurs, and doesn’t press the issue.

\---

Later that day, she spies Archer again, this time in the courtyard. She’s patrolling the battlements out of habit, while Lancer takes time to himself.

Archer’s in that revealing robe, and a warm breeze carries a luxurious, sweet-spicy scent of perfume to her. She can’t decide if it smells pleasant or not.

Saber ducks behind the wall and peers through an arrow-slit at him.

Archer saunters across the courtyard, suspiciously oblivious yet again. His hips sway just enough to draw attention, and that robe hugs his thighs and back more than she thought.

Saber squints. _Just what are you after, Archer…?_

He stands beneath an apple tree—one of the few not in the outer court’s orchards—and receives a blanket from one of his molten portals. (Naturally he prefers his own treasury to a strange castle’s.) A modern-looking picnic basket follows suit, and Saber’s mouth waters at the scents wafting up to her. But she stays resolute.

Just as Archer sits on the blanket and opens the basket, Lancer strolls out of one of the outdoor walkways. Judging by the slight pause in his steps, Archer surprises him. But Lancer doesn’t go on the offensive. He walks over to Archer with the same ease as with Saber. Perhaps it’s a temporary truce.

Skin dappled by the trees, Lancer sits opposite Archer. He takes the iced wine offered with his usual gratitude. Birds sing overhead, a soft breeze blows through, and Saber feels the odd one out for being so tense.

_I shall watch a moment longer. Then I’ll leave them be._

Archer takes a cluster of purple grapes from the basket and plucks a particularly juicy-looking one. He says something too soft for Saber to hear.

Lancer’s chuckle floats across the grass. He takes the grape from Archer’s fingers and pops it in his mouth.

Archer’s grumble is audible. It seems he had other ideas. Then he says something that makes Lancer place his cup to one side and lean forward.

Lancer takes the cluster from Archer’s hand and plucks another grape, the weak sunlight silver on the glistening fruit…

…And Archer lets Lancer feed him.

Saber’s neck prickles with unexpected heat. _It must be a spell—no, he’s being manipulated!_

But no matter what her mind tries to tell her, there’s no denying what’s in front of her eyes. Lancer is placing grapes in Archer’s mouth, and his fingers come out unscathed. It doesn’t take long before he’s allowed to come closer, and Archer curls up to him like a lion in a patch of sun.

Saber wills herself to stay quiet, even as her blood roars in her ears. _What business is it of mine? They are not of Camelot; they can do as they wish!_

As if sensing her thoughts, Archer's head turns slightly toward her hiding place. Even from this distance, she can see the sly smile on his lips.

He wants her to see this, to act as voyeur for his satisfaction.

And Lancer may not mind.

Saber can’t stand it anymore. With confusion and something hotter, more primal slithering through her veins, she leaves silently.

\---

The wind howls and buffets Saber and Lancer's backs as they struggle into the Great Hall for dinner. It's unexpectedly cold, for spring, and each hoarse breath wrenched from Saber's lungs uses her throat like a whetstone. Lancer's hair is blasted back from his face, and his curls grow as tangled as bracken. Even someone as muscular as him has an unsteady gait in this blustery weather.

The huge, wood double doors are as sturdy as the tree they came from, which is both a blessing and a curse—it takes all of Saber and Lancer's strength to yank on the wrought-iron handles and pry them open. Just as they slip inside, the doors shut behind their backs with an ominous _boom_.

Lancer leans against the wall of the entryway, and Saber echoes him on the opposite side. They're both out of breath despite the meager distance they traveled.

The two look at each other and grin. Despite the trouble getting here, now they can eat in peace.

And Saber will pointedly not mention that she saw Lancer and Archer's picnic. What business is it of hers anyway? Lancer isn’t her knight. (The one consolation in all this is that Lancer's Love Spot isn't to blame for her concern. Her Magic Resistance is too high for that.)

“Shall we reward ourselves for our perilous journey?” Saber asks, needing a distraction for her thoughts.

“Gladly,” Lancer replies, having caught his breath.

They sit by the hearth, as usual, and dinner is ask-for-six-helpings delicious, as usual. Yet Saber barely notices what she's eating—she's too consumed with thoughts of Archer's wiles, and whether Lancer has been ensnared.

“You know,” Lancer says, looking at her with droll amusement, “Archer could hardly contain his glee today. He told me about how you 'spied' on our picnic.”

Saber's toes curl in her shoes, but she keeps her expression level. “Forgive me, Lancer—I should have told you earlier.”

“Apology accepted.”

She sets down her fork and knife and frowns. “I wish to know the truth, Lancer. What is your business with him?”

Lancer’s eyes widen. “—What? We thought you knew!” He worries his lower lip before speaking. “How unfortunate…then I owe you an apology as well, Saber. Archer isn't enchanting me to do his bidding; it's simply a matter of mutual desire.”

“Desire?” She knows of the Romans and their… _tastes_ , but it never occurred to her that it could happen elsewhere.

Lancer toys with his knife, wording his answer carefully. “By happenstance, I desire men and women both. Comparatively, men…‘see’ through the Love Spot and know me as I am.” He smiles at her. “As do _you._ ”

Saber runs a finger along a knot in the grain; it looks like a lidless eye. “…I understand.”

Lancer doesn't appear convinced, but says nothing as he sets down his knife.

“As Archer has you to entertain him,” Saber continues with a small smile, “he'll have his fill of chivalry.”

Lancer huffs out a laugh and stretches; the muscles of his arms knot and loosen. “Perhaps. But you mustn’t pin your hopes on me, Saber—I'm merely a knight.”

“You, First Knight of Fianna, are not 'merely' anything.” Saber can't keep the stern honesty from her voice. She hates seeing a good man put himself down.

Lancer's lips twitch into a surprised smile, and the way he bows proudly at the waist gladdens Saber's heart. “I shall do my best to live up to your expectations, King of Knights!”

Saber searches his face and posture for any sign of discomfort before asking “If you have no objections…I have a question regarding Archer.”

“Ah.” Lancer chuckles, crossing his legs at the ankles. “I was wondering when that would come up. Ask away, Saber.”

“Very well.” She clasps her hands and rests them on her lap, thinking of the best way to phrase her nagging worry. “Has Archer ever treated you unkindly?”

Lancer shakes his head. “Surprisingly, no. We enjoy the occasional ‘rough play’, if you will, but he is never cruel.” His lips curl in a wry smile. “I think that would bore him.”

Saber fidgets. “But he calls others ‘mongrels’, and looks down on them!”

“That he does. But I’ve been called far worse—and by those I care about most. By comparison…” Lancer shrugs his shoulders. “…But you may feel otherwise; it’s all a matter of perspective.”

“…Has Archer asked you to be his vassal?”

Lancer hums in amusement. “It seems he knows who I would prefer, given the two of you. I may not be as… _knightly_ as in your time, Saber, but I do have a sense of loyalty.”

Saber smiles, and a weight falls from her heart. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” A pause. “I can tell you have one more question on your mind.”

She glances away awkwardly. “When you said you and Archer enjoy ‘rough play’ on occasion…what did you mean?”

That gives him pause. She hears him fidget and shift his feet. “If I may, I consider that a breach of privacy.”

Saber’s face grows hot, and she nods in assent. “Forgive me, I spoke rashly.”

“Apology accepted,” Lancer says, his tone neutral but not cold.

Saber turns back to look at him. “Once more, I thank you for your honesty.”

Lancer smiles again, easing the tension. “You deserved to know.”

Saber sets her worries aside, for the time being. If Lancer isn't concerned about Archer, she'll make an attempt to follow his example.

But until Archer apologizes, she’ll keep him at arm’s length.

\---

“Good morning, Saber,” Archer says from his balcony, a lazy smile on his lips and a peach in his hand. “Were your dreams pleasant? Of horses, perhaps?”

Saber doesn't answer him. She just glares from the steps.

Archer takes a bite of the peach; it makes a soft, wet sound. The bronzed column of his throat bobs as he swallows. "Mm, delicious. Lancer offered it to me."

Saber nods—fruit would be a fitting token.

Archer dangles his arm over the balcony's side. He’s wearing a long-sleeved tunic today, another strangely modest choice. “He left a basket of them, in fact. And as it happens, I _do_ know how to share from time to time. Especially with someone of your…caliber _._ ”

She watches pale, pink nectar trickle down his wrist, gather on his fingers, and fall. He lounges shamelessly, his eyelashes lowered as he tracks her gaze.

"White will stain," she finally says. Her voice remains steady.

Archer grins and takes another bite of the peach; his free hand runs fingers through his mussed hair. He swallows, making a pleased sound low in his throat as he does so. “Would you prefer I wore something in your colors, Saber?”

“No.” She hates that she had to think of a response.

“I see.” Archer’s eyes glaze over in thought. “By the way—you have my permission. And you _certainly_ have Lancer’s.”

Saber tilts her head to one side. “To do what?” 

“…Well, well. Lancer’s patience is truly unparalleled.” Archer laughs softly and leaves the balcony. There's a flicker of snakeskin before he vanishes inside.

\---

Lancer looks up at Saber, his chest rising and falling with each labored breath.

His clothes and skin are drenched with sweat, and his long curl gleams wetly, clinging to his forehead. His face is flushed with exertion. He looks as though he’s been gilded in silver; he wipes rivulets of sweat from his neck and face with the back of his hand.

 _You have Lancer’s permission, and Archer’s as well,_ a voice whispers in her head—not for the first time today.

“Do you yield?” she asks, the tip of her wooden practice sword still hovering over his neck.

He squints up at the sun—it’s nearly evening, about four hours since their sparring session began. After a moment’s consideration, he nods.

Saber sits down beside him. Even with proper space between them, his bare arm heats her shoulder. Her body feels unexpectedly warm as well—perhaps due to the rigor of today’s match. When she closes her eyes, she can still see Archer and his peach, and wonders if that’s the reason her sparring partner was late.

“You have always been a fierce opponent, Saber,” Lancer says, as he catches his breath, “but you seem more tense than usual.”

“It is nothing,” she replies, too quickly. “It appears I’m easily distracted today.”

Lancer’s eyebrows rise. “If this is how you spar when distracted, I fear your full concentration!”

 “It’s not like that.” Saber looks up at the sky and watches the clouds’ leisurely journey through the endless blue. She clears her throat. “My mind keeps drifting to unseemly things, you see.”

“‘Unseemly’…ah. Do you wish to speak of them?” Lancer turns his body toward hers, his feet brushing the dirt.

Saber toys with her practice sword, struggling to find the words. “…Well. We have shared home and hearth together for quite some time; you have even seen fit to explain your relationship with Archer.” She sneaks a glance at him, looks away. “Your trust brings me unexpected joy.”

“And yet, your thoughts are ‘unseemly’? I disagree.”

She may as well say it.

“On my way here, I met Archer. He…” Saber finally looks Lancer in the eye. “…He said I have both of your ‘permissions’, and—what's so amusing, Lancer?”

Lancer doubles over, wracked with silent laughter. “Pardon me,” he rasps, catching his breath. “…I should’ve expected he would speak so plainly.”

She frowns as the laughing spell resides. “Then that was the truth?”

“Yes.” Lancer gazes at her with open fondness. “I shall speak plainly as well. I enjoy Archer’s company, but you bring me similar delight.”

Saber's heart jolts in her chest. “In—in other words, you mean—”

He suddenly turns bashful, rubbing the back of his neck. “…I have locked my feelings inside my heart until now. But it grows more difficult by the day. Still, as a knight, I know my bounds. So—I patiently await your decision, King of Knights.”   

A flock of birds flies overhead, dappling the grass with tiny flickering shadows.

The space between them feels very small now. With the slightest of movements, Saber could breach the gap between them. She could lift her fingers to his chin, tilt it downward, and lean forward…

“What if I refuse?” she whispers, her throat threatening to close and entrap each honorable word.

Lancer understands. “Then Archer and I shall continue our affair as usual. And I will still be honored to share your company.” He clasps a hand over his heart. “You have my word on that.”

They’ve maintained etiquette and remained truthful. A strange cocktail of relief and something primal, yet familiar, settles inside her chest, urging her forward.

“…I see.” Saber takes a deep breath, lets it out. “Then in that case…close your eyes, Lancer.”

He obeys, relief plain on his face. She lets herself admire him for a moment: his hair dampened with sweat, the pink flush painting his cheeks and ears. As she inches closer, she marvels at the thick, long curve of his eyelashes that could rival Guinevere’s. _In the end, the Love Spot over-embellishes his looks…what a shame._

As Lancer’s shoulders tense, burdened with anticipation, she understands Archer’s words earlier. This knight, so honorable and kind, has waited unfalteringly for her reciprocation. This is a true man of chivalry.

 _What have Archer and I done to be so blessed?_  

Her fingers near his chin. Without needing to be asked he dips his head to her level. His breath ghosts over her lips, and faint dizziness fills her. But the King of Knights will not falter. Closing her eyes, she tilts her head up and brushes her lips against his.

It could barely be called a taste. And yet that slight taste sends a ticklish sensation across her lips. _…I never expected them to be so soft._

Lancer must feel it too. His small gasp vibrates against her skin, prompting an intake of breath from her as well. Then his lips skim across hers, a wordless invitation.

Why refuse?

Cupping his cheeks with her hands, she keeps her kisses light and chaste, ensuring restraint. Not that Lancer makes it easy to endure: the musky scent of his sweat and the soft, sweet sounds leaking past his lips send her mind reeling. It’s as if he’s a virgin about to be deflowered.

Lancer breaks the kiss, stroking her cheek with his hand. “Saber,” he murmurs, achingly tender. “To be in your arms like this—during the War, I only dared to dream. Now…”

“This is no dream,” she breathes, before claiming his lips once more.

Unfortunately, it’s been many centuries since she was last touched like this. She’s practically in Lancer’s lap as it is. With each hitch of breath, each stroke of Lancer’s fingers in her hair, she wants to melt against him. As she allows the kiss to deepen, savoring the sounds and sights and tastes, liquid heat pools in her belly. Saber’s heartbeat pounds in her ears, fluttering fast—

—Lightning rumbles, the sound far closer than she would like. Another rainstorm is coming.

Reluctantly they break the kiss. Saber can’t help but feel a little relieved that Lancer is just as mussed and out-of-sorts as she is. _That storm is a blessing in disguise. My body will need tending to soon._  

Lancer sighs at the sky. “I should’ve expected this. Shall we continue this inside, Saber?” 

Saber tugs at her tie—it feels stifling now. “I would prefer another time. I’m…rather out of practice.”

Lancer laughs good-naturedly. “As you wish!” Then he stands, and extends a hand. “Then let us escape the rain while we can.”

She takes it gladly, and rises up to meet him like the tide.    

\---

After dinner, Saber returns to her chambers with weary bones and a mind determined to focus on details she would otherwise ignore.

The sparring matches were entertaining and challenging, as always. But her skin still feels warm from the brushes of Lancer’s hands, and his spring scent seems to cling to her clothes. His laughter, genuine and warm, sought out her heart and touched it without his realizing. Even with high Magic Resistance, there are aspects of Lancer’s body and soul that give her pause.

Her thumb brushes her lips. _To think I kissed him today as well. Was that right?_ She bites her lower lip. _…Yes, of course it was, he said so._

Saber closes the door behind her, listening to the rainfall outside her window. The hearth-fire warms the cold stones, and the bath is already waiting for her.

When she strips and sinks into the heated water, she thinks of where Lancer and Archer might be now. Much like with Guinevere and Lancelot, they have slept together under her nose. But this time, both men told her about it—as if they _wished_ for her to know. _But what could they gain from such a thing? Is it the thrill of being caught…or the pleasure in outsmarting an opponent in war?_

Saber casts that last theory aside. The Grail War is over. This situation is something else entirely. It may well be one of those emotions that she can’t understand.

_…I should clean myself._

She wets a blue washcloth, letting it float dreamily in the water, and squeezes it with robotic precision. The soaked cloth is warm and soft on her cheeks, and she sighs as she swirls it across her face, down to her neck. Layers of sweat come off with each pass, but not dirt as she expected. Perhaps the rain shower washed it off already.

Then she pauses, the washcloth resting just above her breasts.

Unbidden, she thinks of Lancer laughing and running alongside her to the Great Hall's entrance, trying to shield her head from the rain with his arm. His attire already shows off the curves of his body; when the rain drenched him, she glimpsed his nipples growing hard from the cold…

A hot spark stirs within her, and she realizes that the cloth ran over her breast, feather-light. She can’t recall if she’s ever touched her chest for pleasure, or if Morgan or Guinevere did. Saber certainly did it for _them_ , letting their soft breasts spill over her hands, suckling at their tips while her lovers curled their fingers in her hair and urged her forward.

The memories, both pleasant and profane, make Saber lean back against the tub’s rim. Heat slinks into her belly, an unexpected guest.

 _…I wonder if I could do such things to Lancer?_ After his confession (and their kiss), it’s impossible to think of him as a “mere” worthy opponent now. Things have become more complicated than that.

Saber tentatively glides the cloth over her breasts again, imagining.

_She conjures up Lancer, removing his clothes for her as Guinevere once did, excited and nervous. As soon as his chest is bared, she rains kisses on it without restraint, as she can’t in life. He gasps when her lips ghost against a dark nipple. It swells against her tongue, salty-sweet._

Water trickles from the cloth, down her hot belly.

“ _S-Saber…!_ ” _Lancer’s lips part with pleasure, and his palm runs over her neck and back, leaving tingling warmth against her skin._

Her breasts ache with a strange pleasure edging toward pain, and her arousal threatens to flag. Perhaps she should stop for a moment and let her mind wander.

Her thoughts drift to Archer for a moment—what would it be like, kissing _him_? She draws a blank. He _is_ pleasing to the eyes, that much she can admit. But no further. He has yet to apologize for his vexing remarks at the banquet.

And yet, Lancer clearly finds some appeal in him…perhaps she needs to see through his eyes. _But how?_

She turns her mind elsewhere, and the cloth follows.    

_Lancer’s chest rises up to meet her mouth, and her fingers glide toward his other nipple, stiff against her palm. His moan vibrates against her tongue and fingertips, so sweet. His hand is so warm on her flesh, it’s as if she could melt against him._

Saber bites back a moan of her own as the damp washcloth dips between her thighs, clinging to them, easing them open. Water splashes against the sides of the tub.

Centuries later, it still feels strange, not touching Merlin’s “gift”. She can’t deny it gave her mind-numbing pleasure, and to Guinevere and Morgan in turn. Yet—no longer stretched past its limits by magic—that little nub of flesh the cloth is tickling feels like _hers_. She remembers learning how Guinevere liked her sex to be touched, and Morgan after. Saber learned their wants thoroughly.

For many years, Saber hasn’t been able to pleasure herself. Rather, she hasn’t _allowed_ it. This is the first time.

Her hand works the cloth, and her mind sinks back into fantasy:

_Lancer’s hand takes her wrist with reverence and guides it downward. “I—I need you here, King of Knights,” he murmurs. His neck and chest are flushed with desire._

_Saber’s fingers brush his damp curls, then slip against him. He’s as aroused as she was when she lay with Morgan, and the lightest touch earns her a gasp of desire._

_“More,” Lancer begs, his eyes wet at the corners like a bride from a ballad. “Please, touch me more…!_ ”

“Lan…cer…” Saber groans, barely aware of the hot, numbing friction between her legs.

_In her mind’s eye, she gives him release again and again. She drenches him in pleasure, coating his belly in white. This dream-Lancer is never satisfied: whether on his back putting Merlin’s “gift” to good use, or smothering his face between her thighs, he orgasms every time without fail. In reality, no man could ever perform such a feat, but in this moment she doesn’t care._

Her fingers slip against the cloth, losing the rhythm for a moment. Her hips arch upwards in yearning. The steam from the bath fills her mouth, warming her throat and lungs.

“Lancer—I’m close—” The cloth tickles her inner thighs, making her squirm.

_The fantasy fragments: Lancer, licking her thighs clean. Gazing over his shoulder at her with fire in his eyes. She continues to caress him, kiss him, give him all the pleasure she can provide—_

The coiling heat builds and builds, rises and rises—

_“—Yes, Saber,” Lancer cups her face in his gentle hands, “let me see your pleasure.”_

Heat erupts from within her. The world vanishes in a vision of electric white. As if from far away, she can feel her body shuddering, water lapping at her oversensitive skin.

Little by little, the world realigns.  

Her heartbeat slows. She picks up the washcloth with fingers still trembling from the aftershocks, and sets it aside before finding another clean one at the bathtub’s edge. For a selfish moment, she considers another round…which would only waste time. The water is growing cold, and she needs to rest.

After she finishes washing and towels herself off, she notices something strange. That sense of guilt has yet to arrive. In fact, she feels…light. Curious, even, about what tomorrow might hold.

_Is this how my people felt, day by day? Am I allowed this luxury?_

In bed, she mulls over it in fits and starts, too conscious of her sensitive skin and the faint sounds of laughter floating in through the window.

The next morning, she wakes to a cold bed and a single resolve: _I shall allow it. I want to know more._  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To give myself breathing room, chapter 3 will ideally be out near the end of May. Normally I'd say two weeks from now--hopefully that'll be the case post-chapter 3! :D *crosses fingers*


	3. Fresh Opportunities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saber takes her first step forward in discovering her desires--which soon becomes a stride.

Saber blinks in confusion at the sight before her. This breakfast is off to a strange start.

 _So_ that _was what Lancer implied earlier this morning. How did he put it…? “You needn’t focus only on me. If you can find it in your heart, allow Archer to spend time with you.”_

It was a fair suggestion. Saber’s resolve to discover her pleasures hasn’t waned, even in the cold light of day. Her heart thrills at the mere opportunity.

And now—as if to test her—the Throne of Heroes provides one. 

“Good morning, Saber,” Archer says, nestled comfortably at the Great Hall’s table, his back to the blazing hearth. He pushes away an empty plate with one smooth motion of his hand. “I must admit: for simple fare, these soft boiled eggs and toasted apples are quite delicious. Care for some?”

“…Yes,” she replies, keeping him in her sights as she takes her usual place. “Where is Lancer?”

It’s a trick question: _Saber_ knows where Lancer is, as he told her himself on her way to breakfast. Whether Archer will lie is more relevant.

“The library. He wished to spend time alone.” Archer’s smile hints at teeth. “There. Now you needn’t fear for his life.”

Both answers are correct. The fork cools her fingers; she debates tossing it like a dart toward his smug face. “You’re mistaken.”

He raises an eyebrow and rests his hands on the table. “Perhaps." The long white sleeves of his tunic pull back slightly, exposing the smooth slope of his forearms. "And yet, your glare says otherwise.”

She sighs and takes a plate of food. Time to change subjects. “I never expected you to eat by yourself. There is plenty of room here for all of us.”

Archer blinks slowly, as if waking from a deep slumber. “Hmm. That is quite an offer.” He glances away—and not out of coyness this time.

Rather, the more Saber looks at his cheeks, the more something ridiculous occurs to her. _Is he…blushing? No, it couldn’t be._ And yet, his creased brow as he covers his cheeks with a hand suggests so.

“…Forgive me, I meant no offense.”

“I’m well aware.” Archer’s voice is a bit muffled behind his hand. “The customs of my era would be foreign to you. In short: a king must never be seen dining, as it is the most private of affairs.”

She leans forward slightly. “What of your picnic with Lancer?”

“Those are light meals, meant more for socializing than eating.” He plucks imaginary lint from his shirt. “Even the most gregarious mongrel requires time apart from their fellows on occasion.”

Saber rubs her arm. “Still…that seems excessive.”  

“And so you deign to join me. Heh. Your concern is sweet…but misplaced.”

“Then explain your presence here.” She could reach across the table and smack him onto his behind. “ _If_ you have one.”

“Oh, that I do,” he purrs. “I came to apologize for my remarks at the banquet.”

He goes so far as to stand and bow just as Lancer would.

“…Is this a trick?” She has to ask; otherwise she’ll go mad from wariness.

“Shall I deign to kneel?” Archer’s knees bend ever so slightly downwards.

“That won’t be necessary.”

He straightens, laughing under his breath. “Ah, well, it was worth considering.” He raises an eyebrow. “Do you accept my apology?”

 _I mustn’t waste this chance._ “…Unless you insult me again, I will.”

Archer seems to accept it and takes his seat as before.

Saber pauses just before spearing an apple with her fork. “Why did you not apologize earlier?”

“You would have never believed me ‘earlier’. And, coincidentally, you appear in good spirits.”

“Ah. I suppose I am.”

Archer’s back straightens. “You’re unsure?”

There’s no good answer to that question. So Saber doesn’t try. She turns her attention to the full, steaming plate now sitting before her. It seems Archer has good taste in food after all; the eggs’ soft golden yolk are especially savory today.

Archer hums in amusement, or perhaps fondness, which she ignores. What he says afterward tugs at her attention:

“It appears Lancer has placed great trust in me. At last, he allowed us to share a room alone.”

Saber flicks her gaze up to meet his. The table separating them feels at once too short and too large.

She swallows before speaking. “True, it’s unprecedented. Either he planned this carefully—or it’s a coincidence.”

Archer tilts his head to one side, his smile hinting at secrets. “In any event, it’s hardly unwelcome. And so…” He glances at her beneath his eyelashes, a long slow blink. “…I require an escort today.”

She can’t even ask him to repeat what he just said. It was nonsense the first time.

“Of course, I know my way around _somewhat_ ,” Archer explains casually. “However, this castle is far bigger than it appears.”

Despite Saber’s misgivings, it doesn’t feel right to ignore someone needing aid. Which may be the point: this is an excuse to interact.

_…Interesting._

Saber returns to her breakfast, savoring each bite. For a long while there is only silence between them. Which doesn’t bother her—in her opinion, the previous conversation was strained at best.

As she eats, she ponders. _My recent courtships have been rather out of order—and yet no-one minds._ She smiles against her cup’s rim.  _That’s fine—no, a boon. My hideous “love poems” are best left unread._

She cleans her plate and settles back, comfortably full.

Archer is still where he started, his back to the fire and his hands resting on the table. His gold necklace and bracelets gleam in the dim light, turning his eyes a richer, darker red. He almost looks like the king he claims to be.

_…Perhaps Lancer has good taste as well._

“What does that unwavering gaze of yours see?” Archer asks, scattering her thoughts with ease.

There's little point in hiding it. “Someone worth Lancer's time and attention. Thus, more intriguing than I expected.”

Archer tips his head to one side, exposing the curve of his neck. “Oh? How conventional...yet unexpected.”

“How so?”

“Simple. In your eyes, I'm at once intriguing and untrustworthy. The former is a new development, the latter ancient.”

Saber's hackles rise. “Are you accusing me of lying?”

“Hardly,” he scoffs. “You _could_ say I'm accusing you of dithering.”

She crosses her arms over her chest and huffs. “What concern is it of yours? This is uncharted territory, and I’m discovering it as I go.”

He nods as if understanding. “Then Lancer and I shall look on your discoveries with great interest.”   

They stare at each other without blinking. It isn't just two kings taking stock of their equal. That would be expected. Rather, there's something pleasantly familiar about it.  _A tete-a-tete, as the French would say._

The sly smile returns to Archer’s face. "Perhaps there _is_ a way to earn your trust. Come here.”

Instinctively Saber gets to her feet; she stops and narrows her eyes. “First, tell me the rules of this game.”

He actually complies. “It’s simple: I shall keep as still as possible and allow you to touch me. Until your suspicions vanish, your hands may roam wherever they wish. That is—aside from my vital parts.” He lifts an eyebrow. “Do you agree to the terms, Saber?”

The same selfishness that slithered through her body last night throbs to life again. _Perhaps it isn’t selfishness,_ she rationalizes.  _Rather, it’s curiosity. After all—our goal is mutual: to see if we can trust our words. If I keep my wits about me, I’ll be safe._

Squaring her shoulders, Saber rounds the table and stops at Archer’s side. To keep his royal backside from splinters, he’s placed a silk cushion between his body and the bench.

“I need a comfortable chair,” Saber murmurs, and the castle provides one in soothing blue velvet. She eases into it and sighs contentedly. “Thank you.”  

In response, Archer summons another cushion and lays his sandaled feet along the bench. Much like Lancer’s, his legs seem to taper endlessly. He props himself up on one hand, fingers curled against the bench, while the other rests against his raised knee. 

“Are you comfortable?” Saber asks with a roughened voice, hands clasped in her lap.

Archer inclines his head and smiles. “You may begin.”

Steeling herself, Saber leans forward, reaching out with the tips of her fingers.

She starts with the safest option: his shoulder. At least, that’s what she hoped. His body heat seeps through the linen fabric of his tunic; his skin is so hot to the touch she almost retracts her hand. Breathing evenly, she keeps her fingers on that muscled slope, ignoring the incessant thrum of mana in his veins.

“Interesting choice,” Archer murmurs, his eyes focused on her face.

“…I thought you were going to keep still.”

“My _body_ will, of course. My mind shall think as it pleases—and my lips will speak.”

“A misstep expected of a man like you.” Saber glides her hand across the broad ridge of muscle to his throat, resting her thumb lightly over his rhythmic pulse.

It doesn’t change. Even as she presses firmer on that thick vein, his breath remains even. Unconcerned. A sliver more weight could choke the air from his foolhardy lungs. And yet…

She narrows her eyes. “You should be more wary, King of Heroes.”

His chuckle tickles the pads of her fingers. “Would that please you, King of Knights?”

Saber ignores him. This time she inches her hand to his hair. She refuses to show her surprise at the full and soft locks that greet her. She expected his hair to feel thin and greasy—it’s nearly always slicked back. His head twitches against her touch; it must tickle. Choosing to avoid annoying him, she pulls back her hand.

Her feet fidget then still. Now she’s heading into intriguing territory—and that will be difficult to hide.

“Where to next?” Archer’s words melt into the air.

_I won’t allow him to best me._

It takes a few moments for her to decide. Then, as she studies the drape of his wrist against his knee, she reaches out to hold it.

It’s heavy, weighing down her palm. The bracelet chills her skin, giving her an unwelcome nudge back to reality. She powers through.

Compared to hers and Lancer’s, Archer’s hand is large and elegant, without a hint of callouses. His smallest finger could circle her wrist. The nails have been trimmed and buffed, glinting like silver.  _The skin is soft as silk…I see. He must tend to it daily, as ladies did in my time._

Archer chuckles, low in his throat and intimate. “Well, well. It seems you share Lancer’s taste. He has yet to grow bored of worshipping my hands.”

“…Is that so.” Saber knows she shouldn’t, but she replies anyway. “Do you play this game with him as well?”

“Ask him yourself.” Despite the short answer, Archer’s voice is low and gentle.

As she gently turns his heated wrist palm up, palm down, and back, she admires how loose his fingers are, how slender. It’s easy to imagine them threading through Lancer’s hair, undressing him with practiced care.

She lets her mind wander free, replaying last night’s fantasy in her mind. This time, there’s an addition: Archer.

_After Lancer finally grows weary, she imagines Archer, drenched in jewels and nothing more, settling his body over hers. His eager hands and tongue tease Merlin’s gift back to full erection, his own arousal digging into her thigh. Lancer joins him between her legs, and together they…_

“…Oh dear.” Archer’s amused purr drags her mind back to the present. “What a delightful face. What could have inspired _that_ , I wonder?”

“Forgive me,” she says, lowering her head. “I’m sure you find this dull.”

Archer sighs, feigning disappointment. “Dear Saber—if something entertains or pleasures you, you should cherish it to your heart’s content. After all, _that_ is where true joy lies.”

Saber scoffs. “Then you must lead a simple life.”

“Indeed.” Shrug. “Why aim for a miserable existence?”

“…No one ‘aims’ for such a life. It simply happens to them.”

“Humph. In _that_ case, one should find what amusement lies within their reach.” His expression closes up. “Everything fades with time.”

Saber looks into his eyes and dares to run her thumb along the ridges and dips of his knuckles. “Is that why you lie with Lancer? Because he’s ‘within reach’?”

Archer’s fingers twitch—the only sign he’s affected by her touch. “Would that ease your mind if it were true?”

She lets his wrist dangle in her palm, watching the fire reflect off their hands. “I’m not concerned.” Her voice remains steady. “Lancer can take care of himself.”

“Oh, that he can,” Archer murmurs, his eyes now bright with some unknown amusement. “We have embraced countless times, and his honor remains unsullied.”

She smiles bitterly. “How are you so certain?”

“Because he is no stranger to pleasure, and feels no shame in pursuing it. Since he is a knight…and you are the _King_ of Knights…should you not feel similarly?”

Her chest hurts.

“I’m unsure,” she replies, finally dropping his hand. “As King of Britain, I must fulfill the desires of my people, not my own. And yet, I am no longer bound by that oath.” She shakes her head in self-deprecation. “ _You_ wouldn’t understand.”

His brows knit together. “That may be so.” He adjusts his posture slightly, switching hands to give the other a break from holding him upright. “I take it this game is ended.”

It sounds reasonable. And yet for some reason, she doesn’t feel satisfied yet.

“Not quite,” she says, flexing her fingers absently.

That seems to reassure him. “Good. I shall be patient.”

She looks him over, creating a strategy. _The hips are too dangerous. The feet wouldn’t feel any different from the hands. So…_  

… _Yes. “Those areas” have their own risks, but men don’t appear to give them much thought. They will do._

Then, with her heart fluttering like a bird, she turns her attention to his chest.

His tunic may be modest in theory, yet it fails in practice. It edges close to hugging his curves—two in particular. The v-shaped neckline cuts a swathe through the fabric just deep enough that it would look lascivious on a woman.

When she traces the arc of the neckline with her thumb, the skin beneath trembles. — _No. It's still lascivious._

“Mm…” Archer bites his lip.

She pulls back. “Is something wrong?”

“Oh, not particularly. Continue.”

With a short grumble she leans forward again, her thumb finishing its arc just beneath his collarbones. The slow, steady rise and fall of his chest prickles against her skin. She can see the valley between his pectorals, not quite as pronounced as Lancer’s but still notable.

Idly, she follows it with her index finger; he shamelessly yet subtly arcs into the touch.

It’s difficult to suppress the shiver tickling her neck. She pulls her hand away and sits back in her chair. “You mustn’t _move_ , King of Heroes. Or have you forgotten?”

“…No.” His fingers curl against his knee.

“Good.”

The airy feeling of victory blooms in her chest. For the first time, _she_ has outmaneuvered _him_. If this victory’s to last, however, she needs to end this game here.

“—Very well. I will serve as your escort today.”

Archer’s eyes glint in pleasure. 

\---

They leave the Great Hall and reach the steps leading to the courtyard. A shiver trembles down Archer’s back; for a moment Saber wishes she had a cloak. Which is nonsense, of course. Archer can summon one any time he wishes.

 _There_ is _one thing I can do…_

Saber offers him her arm. “With the wind picking up, the stairs may be treacherous.”

Then she realizes what she’s doing. Archer is a king, and a man for that matter—this is more insult than aid. _What am I thinking? I must be under the weather…_

She draws back, putting polite distance between them. “Forgive me, Archer. Yet again, I meant no disrespect.” 

Archer peers down at her suspiciously, which she supposes isn’t unfounded considering their previous encounters. Then his lips curl into a knowing smile.   

“Ah, yes, now I remember,” he says, hooking his fingers feather-light near her elbow. “My apologies, King of Knights.”

Saber does her best not to react. “What do you mean, ‘you remember’?”

“Lancer explained this to me.” Archer shortens his stride to match hers as they descend. “This is a knight’s joy.”

“A knight’s duty. And a king’s as well.” Her reply is more curt than necessary.

Archer indulges her. The tips of his fingers press soft and warm against her sleeve and the skin beneath…then loosen, as if to reassure her.

When they reach the bottom of the stairs, Saber wonders if the dew-stained grass will offend Archer’s delicate sensibilities. The lush blades wet her ankles and tickle through her socks. No doubt the effect is stronger in sandals.

Instead, he offers up a conversation topic.

“Before, you spoke admiringly of horses,” he says, casually. “What of wilder beasts?”

 _What brought this on?_ She answers anyway. “Well…I have a fondness for panthers and lions.”

He gazes down at her, his eyes brighter than she’s ever seen. “What a coincidence! Lions are my favorite as well.”

A smile crosses her lips. “I trust you owned one in life.”

Archer laughs. “Oh, far more than that. My friend brought an entire pride home with him once. They settled at the palace for many generations.” 

“…I see. How fortunate.” Saber looks down at the ground and sighs sadly. “Once, I tended to a cub. It was only for a month, but—sometimes I wish he could have stayed throughout my reign.”

Silence.

“That was a foolish thought,” she says, straightening her back and lifting her chin. “Pay it no mind, King of Heroes.”

Then Archer mutters to himself, to quiet for her to hear.

“What was that?” she asks, peering up at him. “If you wish to speak, then do so.”

His fingers stir at her arm. “Oh, nothing. I was…performing calculations.” He looks back at her and grins. “Back to the subject at hand: there were lions in Britain?”

And so, they speak of lions. It feels as if a dam has been breached, however little: this conversation is an animated one, and Archer seems enthralled by her words. He even laughs, despite her never having a knack for jests. His reactions spur her onward, and vice-versa. He has to bend deep at the waist to hear her; his breath tickles the top of her head when he speaks.

As they talk, she guides him through the inner courtyard and along the walls that follow the moat. It’s rather peaceful. Archer has no trouble using her arm for support along the narrow steps—though when the brisk winds blast against them they end up supporting each other.

Despite having doubtless walked the breadth of this castle many times over, Archer acts otherwise. He’s not _innocent_ , precisely. Rather, with Saber he seems to see everything anew.  

Once they’ve made the complete circuit of the moat, Archer strolls over to the wall, his movements languid. He rests his elbows against the stone, his back to her. A breeze tangles in his hair as the fair strands catch the sun.

“Is anything amiss?” Saber asks, moving closer.

“Unlikely,” Archer replies, covering his mouth as a yawn passes his lips. “I merely wish to take in the sights.”

The breeze weaves its way onward. It rolls over the emerald orchards in the outer courtyard, and blows overripe specimens off a copse of fruit-laden trees. Bright little birds swoop in to spirit away the seeds.

Distant and off to the side, the mysterious forest looms. The trees are so still it feels as if they’re a third pair of eyes, watching over the scene. Saber ponders it idly.

“Is that forest the exit? Or just another corner of this place?”

“The latter,” Archer replies, lazy as you please. “The exit appears when you’re able and willing to leave.”

 _How will you know_ , she almost asks, until she realizes the answer.  

She turns her attention elsewhere. Straight down below the walls, Saber and Archer’s reflections ripple and blur in water far cleaner than in her day.

“Saber,” Archer murmurs, “do you know of Lancer’s life?”

“Yes; tales of the Knights of Fianna were common in my time. Why?”

“Oh, nothing. The tales Lancer told were quite entertaining…” His brows draw together before smoothing out. “…The last one as well, in its own way. Being kidnapped by a princess, hunted by one’s old companions, reconciling at last with an old friend—to hear him tell it, it's a jovial romp. Though the outcome was too lurid for my tastes.”

Saber sighs bitterly, her reflection follows suit. “A simple goring shouldn’t have killed Lancer. Not while Fionn was close at hand.”

“Humph. Despite that, he claims to have no regrets.” Archer laughs; his expression is strangely fond. “Rather, it's the truth. To say with pride ‘Even if my King and love were flawed, my time with them was well-spent’… _that_ is a mongrel worthy of my interest.”

There is silence for a long moment. They both have things to mull over.  

“‘Time well spent’, hmm.” Saber clasps her hands behind her back. “It feels strange, having fulfilled my duties as king. These days, I have more time than I can comprehend.”  

Archer’s reflection glances at her for a split second longer than necessary. “That’s understandable. You refuse the ‘luxury’ of leisure to soothe your pride.”

She scoffs. “You say that as if you know humility.”

“Hmm…perhaps you have a point.” It’s amazing how little seems to bother him. “Well. If you require suggestions for entertainment…”

As if snuffed out, the breeze dies down.

“…What?” She lifts her head, turns toward him.

“First: think of this as an amusement, rather than a command from the heavens.” Archer shields his eyes with a hand. Casting a glance at the sky, he turns back to her. “At noon, Lancer will be visiting my chambers. If you feel so inclined to ‘deter him’, I know for certain he'd _gladly_ take your offer.”

Saber bites her lip. “But that would ruin _your_ plan. If you both made arrangements, I cannot intrude.”

Archer shakes his head and laughs. “Sweet Saber. Truly, your chivalry is remarkable!” He makes a sweeping gesture toward an imaginary person. “Lancer desires you.” An identical gesture towards Saber. “ _You_ desire _Lancer._ What binds your passion?”

Saber shakes her head. “You’re mistaken once again, King of Heroes.”

“Oh?” Archer turns fully toward her, resting an arm on the top of the wall. “This should be amusing.”

She straightens up, unsure of how to explain it. “Perhaps Lancer already informed you. We—we exchanged kisses yesterday.” Confessing this to him feels strange, yet pleasant. “And so, our honor brought us together.”

Judging by Archer’s extended pause, she may have been wrong about his knowledge after all. Then his shoulders start to tremble. He throws back his head and laughs, jubilant as a Yuletide reveler.

“It’s the truth,” Saber snaps, reining in her irritation.

Archer nods in acknowledgement; his amusement continues unabated.

Saber lets out a gusty sigh and decides to wait. Much like a storm, some things must simply be endured.

Archer’s laughter finally subsides. “… _Now_ I understand! Yes, Lancer’s shy nobility is _quite_ effective.” He wipes a tear from his eye. “In that case…a slight change of plans is in order.” 

\---

Since there’s still time before noon, Saber decides to stroll around the inner courtyard with Archer. As they walk, she considers Archer and Lancer’s offer. As abrupt as the timing was, she can’t deny how her mind has been preoccupied with an opportunity like this.

The mild, sweet scents of flowers and fruit drench the air. As she watches a fresh apple fall from a tree branch to the wet ground, she wonders if Lancer’s enjoying the library. 

Archer rests his hand at her arm again, despite being on solid ground. Now and then, the slim but solid warmth of his side brushes against hers. It isn’t annoying, surprisingly. In fact, it’s pleasant.

What _is_ annoying is the persistent, stiff ache in her feet, throbbing up her calves.

“We should rest,” she says, pointing to the shady tree where Lancer and Archer held their picnic.

“Oh? Very well, Saber.” A portal opens, and that same blanket spreads out at the tree’s base.

Saber sits first. Archer follows after, placing a respectful distance between them. It’s a small distance—a single space easily breeched with a word and a deed—but a respectful distance nonetheless.

“Care for some refreshment, Saber?”

“Not yet—thank you.” She sighs with relief as the ache in her feet begins to fade, however slightly.  

Above their heads, the sun-drenched leaves dapple across Archer’s face, enhancing his red eyes. Like Lancer, the sun suits him. Catching her gaze, he chuckles at some private joke. Then he sprawls onto his side and rests his chin in his hand, utterly at ease.

“If you wish,” he murmurs, “I can give you a taste of my time with Lancer. That is, what he wished me to tell you.”

Saber folds her hands on her lap. “…A taste, you say.”

Archer summons another, smaller portal and fetches a familiar silver pitcher and goblet. The sunlight gleams along their rims. Without him doing anything the melodic sound of sweet wine being poured fills the air.

Despite being unable to follow Archer's logic, she can't deny he has an eye for ambience. (On occasion. The sheer amount of gold in his possession and on his person tends to ruin it.)    

The goblet now filled, Archer traces the rim with an idle finger.  “As mongrels go, Lancer is a good man. Shy, but noble. If needed, he can hold his desires at bay indefinitely.” Another chuckle. “Oh, if you could have seen him last night…”

Saber leans forward. Wills herself back. “…Did he explicitly tell you to describe this?”

“Indeed.” Archer grins, his finger still stroking the goblet’s rim. “Even the First Knight of Fianna has his limits. He hit it yesterday.”

Saber can’t help but tense. “When? Why?”

“When, as he put it, you _at last_ began ‘courting him in earnest’…well. You were effective.”

Saber’s suit feels hot against her skin. “Oh.”

“Mm.” Archer lifts the goblet to his lips, takes a languid sip. “He entered my chambers as if in a trance, still drenched by the rainwater. It seems you hold quite a lustful gaze at bay—he caught you eyeing his chest. Or perhaps your kiss is what awed him so?”

Saber’s cheeks grow chilled with embarrassment. “Oh, no—I was too forward!”

Archer sets the goblet down, shakes his head with a grin. “On the contrary, in this case. It took all his considerable willpower not to kneel at your feet and offer his body as soon as you entered the castle. Which is impressive, considering his… _history_ with women.”

The very thought of Lancer doing such a thing lights the first spark of heat in her belly. “And so he allowed us to meet.” She looks at him askance. “How do you—”

“—As I said, he informed me,” Archer replies casually. “He _had_ mentioned the fantasy of you joining us before. To reiterate: I have no objections. After yesterday…and perhaps today…that seems more feasible now.”

Fragments of last night’s fantasy fill Saber’s head. That Lancer had similar thoughts is…a relief. She glances away and mulls it over. _Perhaps joining them would bring me pleasure as well. And if it’s true that he will accept any refusal, there is nothing to worry about._  

Archer takes another sip from his goblet, smiling against the rim before he speaks. “Of course, since we _do_ have time before noon…shall we play a little game?”

“Of what sort?” Her eyes track the goblet as he sets it down, unsure of what he’s after.

“A seduction game, naturally. Lancer quite enjoys this one—perhaps you will as well.”

Reminding herself that she has nothing to lose but time, she inclines her head. “Very well. Are the rules the same as before?”

“Almost. There _is_ one adjustment: both players are forbidden to touch.”

Saber blinks, leans forward slightly. “Then what—”

“—You need only look well, Saber.”

Once more, Archer’s fingers delicately trace the rim of the goblet. After slowly completing a circle, three slender fingers dip inside, resurfacing with the tips dripping with red wine. He pauses, letting excess drops land back in the goblet with soft _plips._

“This is the wine I shared with you at Rider’s banquet.” He glances at her, a crooked smile on his face. “Do you remember its smooth, many-textured flavor?”

So saying, he lifts his fingers to his lips. Without breaking eye contact, he slips the smallest into his mouth. It’s a leisurely gesture, one that seems to travel in slow motion: his lips close, and the finger vanishes down to the knuckle. Then his lips slide back up to the fingertip, leaving a glinting silver trail of saliva in their wake.

Saber doesn’t speak. Blood rushes to her cheeks as Archer finishes with his little finger and moves on to the next, well aware of her gaze.

“Oh dear,” he says softly, as wine trickles down his wrist. “It’s dripping.” He gives her a meaningful look, as if he needs her opinion—or direction.

 _Ah. So_ that’s _what he’s playing at._ “…Then lick it clean.”

He does so, his tongue startlingly pink against his honeyed skin.

Thanks to their “trust exercise” earlier this morning, she knows the feel of his fingers, their weight and elegance. No doubt that’s the point.

Saber dares to give him another order: “It would be easier if you cleaned two fingers at a time.”

“Indeed?” He looks at her with feigned surprise and smirks. “Very well.”

He does as directed; two fingers pass his lips with little effort. At one point his tongue flickers briefly, an obvious tease. His head bobs in a manner Saber’s well familiar with—not that said familiarity makes it less surreal. 

She clears her throat. “I fail to see why you require my attention, King of Heroes. You’ve proven you can clean up after yourself—a surprising feat, admittedly.”

The fingers slide free with a wet _pop._ “Your acidic wit is as painful as ever! Indeed, I should have expected that.” Archer looks at her with an unreadable expression. “This is not a gift granted on a whim—don’t treat it lightly.”

“I would appreciate it more if I understood the gift’s nature.”

“Hmm…very well.” Archer kisses his thumb almost absentmindedly. “In this moment, I’ve deigned to obey your commands.”

Saber fights back a shiver at the implications. For now, she places them to one side. “You said that Lancer enjoys this ‘game’. Who watches who?”

“That depends. If _you_ wish for a turn, by all means.”

She shakes her head with a wry smile. “I think not. I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

“You give yourself too little credit—but for now I shall allow it.” This time instead of dipping his fingers into the goblet, Archer lifts it to his lips. As he drinks, the smooth column of his throat bobs rhythmically.

The more Saber watches this… _display_ , the more her clothes constrict against her skin. She loosens her tie with unsteady fingers, draping it about her neck.

“The heat,” she growls in response to Archer’s unspoken question. “Can you not feel it?”

“Indeed I can,” he purrs, setting down the goblet. Two fingers tug at his shirt collar, hinting at a nipple. “You see? I’m sweating.”

She knows that if his eyes travel beyond her neck, he’ll see the taut peaks of her chest, straining through too many layers. Her heart pounds in her ears.

“Oh,” he says, just soft and low enough to make her shiver, “what a lovely sight.”

“Is it?”

Archer nods, running the tip of his tongue over his lips. “To witness you learning to accept pleasure…you could call it a gift.”

Saber needs to make a decision soon. While something hot and primal pours through her body like honey, her mind roils with conflicting feelings. _I could go with him and Lancer…but I’m growing overwhelmed as it is. And yet—_

A painful throbbing blooms in her temples.

Archer sighs and sits up. “Yet again, you’re overthinking things.” He summons a red, wet cloth to wipe his hands with.

“Of course.” She rubs her temples ineffectually. “Why do you care?”

Archer tosses the used cloth back into the portal. “Simple: to see your relaxed state vanish in an instant is disheartening.”

Saber blinks. “Oh.” Her gaze drifts to the portal. “Why hasn’t it vanished yet?”

“That depends on your answer.” He holds his hands palm up, unarmed. “If you wish, I can massage your head.” Then it’s his turn to blink in mild surprise. “Or if you prefer, Lancer can.”

Saber glances over her shoulder—lo and behold, Lancer is retracing his path from the picnic. There’s a slight spring in his step today. He shields his eyes from the sun, and as he comes closer a smile lights up his face.   

“Well, this is a surprise! Two kings sharing the same patch of shade.” The tree’s sun-drenched leaves dapple his skin as he stops before them. “May I join you?”

“Of course,” Saber says, as Archer gestures to the other, vacant side of the blanket.

Lancer inclines his head gratefully and sits opposite them. His posture is surprisingly formal, hands on folded knees. But beneath that formality, there’s a quiver of curiosity and anticipation.

_He doesn’t need to know about this headache. I’ll simply endure it, as always. An honest question should distract him…_

“…I was wondering about something. If I may: what brought you two here in the first place?”

Archer examines his nails, smiling wryly. “If one finds themselves dragged to a wretched, disease-ridden hovel against their will, it poisons body and soul. Upon escaping, one requires cleansing shortly thereafter.”

“Oh.” Saber struggles not to nod and aggravate her head. “I suppose that makes sense.”

“I have similar reasons,” Lancer says, troubled. His hands curl into fists. “I arrived here first. My Master was…a bit _too_ similar to my past king. And his wife—well, she wasn't at fault.” His shoulders slump. “My time with them was—mercifully—short. Regardless. Even through the haze of time, the circumstances lingered in my heart. And so…”

“…I see.” Something inside her compels her to speak further. “I’m glad this place exists.”

“As am I,” Lancer says, smiling fondly at them both. “On that note—the library has copies of our legends.” He glances away briefly, a slight flush on his face. “This may have been rude of me, Saber, but…I specifically reread yours.”

“That’s fine,” she says. “Were you looking for something specific?”

Lancer shifts his weight. “…Your marriage. You were married to a noble lady, Guinevere. And yet—how could two women sire heirs?”

Saber's breath catches.

“That occurred to me as well," Archer says. "Was it a rumor you spread?”

Even as her heart pounds, this feels like the best time to speak of her previous lovers—and circumstances. _This was bound to come up._ _It’s best to explain this now, rather than in the midst of…passion._

“There is little to tell.” She closes her eyes, breathes deep. “However, I shall do my best.”

As she gives them the overview—Merlin’s “wedding gift”, that night with Morgan—she studies them for any signs of disgust. If anything, they seem understanding. Lancer especially. It could be a byproduct of living in a similar era and his curse.

“Well, well,” Archer murmurs, very pleased. “My pet theory held merit after all.”

“…What sort of theory?”

“That your chivalry applied to the bedchamber as well. However, the phallus is a delightful surprise.”

“Alas for you,” she says, resting her hands on her knees, “the enchantment faded long ago.”

Lancer gives Archer a meaningful glance. “An enchantment needn’t be necessary.”

Archer rests his chin in his hand. “…True. My treasury has more than weapons stored inside it.”

Saber nods, well aware of that. The action sends pain throbbing through her head. _Ignore it—!_

“Is something wrong, Saber?” Lancer asks, dashing her plan to pieces.

“It’s merely a headache.” She smiles reassuringly, even as she knows it will fail. “ _Archer_ may insist it needs tending to, but _I_ am of sterner stuff.”

Lancer looks over at Archer and gives a knowing smile. “You wish to pamper Saber so soon, King of Heroes? Why, it took an entire month until I received such a gift.”

Archer smiles back. “Indeed…because you politely rejected each offer until then.”

Lancer rubs the back of his neck and laughs. “Ah, yes, you have a point.”

“On the other hand,” Archer murmurs, taking a sip from his goblet once again, “this scenario is different. I shouldn’t need to explain why.”

Saber raises an eyebrow. “Yes, one king pampering another is certainly ‘different’. But then,” she acquiesces, “the Throne of Heroes recognizes our same worth.”

“As do I.” Lancer’s words are almost too soft to hear.

Saber resists the urge to duck her head, happily embarrassed. It’s a peculiar feeling—especially as her temples still throb without end.

Archer pauses as if savoring Lancer’s praise before speaking. “Haven’t your feet caused you discomfort as well?”

“Yes,” she says, as her soles tingle unpleasantly again. “I see…there are two pairs of hands between you…”

When Lancer returns his attention to Saber, his expression softens. “I would be honored to attend you, King of Knights. Even in this small matter.”

The familiarity of his words soothes her worries. “…Then I accept your offer, First Knight of Fianna.” She glances over at Archer (moments away from batting his eyelashes) and sighs. “And yours as well, King of Heroes.” 

Archer laughs under his breath. “Good. Very good!”

Two small red pillows tumble from the portal. Two silver bowls follow after; one carries rose-scented oil, the other water and a washcloth.

While Lancer washes his hands in the water, he mentions offhand “I can vouch for Archer’s head massages. As you can guess, they’re a gift rarely offered.”

Saber smiles graciously at his suggestion. “Then I shall entrust my feet to you, Lancer.”

He smiles back at her. Then he looks to the side and laughs. “You haven’t wasted a second, Archer.”

Just as Lancer says, Archer already has one of the pillows on his lap. “Lie back, Saber,” he says gently.

With slight hesitation, Saber does so. As she inches down bit by bit, she gets a reversed view of Archer’s face and chest. Even through the pillow, his body heat plays about her neck.

Her heartbeat quickens. _I must stay calm. Stay calm…_

Archer grins down at her. “Are you comfortable, Saber?”

“…Yes. Your temperature caught me unawares.”

Lancer must have finished washing, because the portal finally closes. “Saber, I should warn you,” he says in the same soft tone as Archer, “My hands may be cold at first.”

“That is fine,” she says, lacing her fingers on her belly. _Stay calm._

Lancer rests the pillow on his lap, his steady hands reaching for the leather shoe on her right foot. His grip is firm, yet not meant to restrain. With deft, gentle precision he unties the laces, slipping the shoe off her ankle as it were a holy relic. 

The left shoe follows suit, and the sight of Lancer’s head bent in reverence over her feet doesn’t ease Saber’s erratic heart in the slightest.

Archer brushes her bangs back from her face. “Considerate, isn’t he,” he murmurs, worsening her predicament.

She nods, unable to speak. 

“I should remove these stockings as well,” Lancer says in a voice tinted with heat.

With that, he coaxes off one dark sock, then the other. Cool fingertips brush the pink curve of her ankle, able to fit her heel in his palm if he wished. For now, he lays her feet on the pillow. 

She clears her throat. “You may begin.”

Archer’s hands carefully move to her temples, his index and middle fingers pressed together. As soon as they reach her skin, they begin rubbing in slow circles. It’s almost hypnotic. The circles grow wider and wider with each pass, until he lightly pulls toward her scalp and starts again.

“How does it feel?” he asks, pausing.

Her eyes almost flutter shut. “…Good.”

As he resumes, his low laughter vibrates against her head—a very strange feeling. “Rest if you wish.”

“Yes,” Lancer says, grazing the oil with his fingers. He shakes off the excess drops briskly. “In fact, I would consider that a compliment.”

“Very well.” Saber closes her eyes, lets her mind relax.

Lancer hums under his breath, rolling his thumbs against her sole, from the toes’ base down to her heel. His oiled skin glides easily against hers. The touch of his hand is a bit more forceful than Archer’s, but no less gentle.

Together, they find a rhythm: steady, even, and slow.

Above her head, songbirds tweet and flutter through the trees. Oil slicks her skin, the sound tickling her ears. In the distance, she can hear a shutter creak back and forth, inviting fresh air into a stuffy room. The blanket whispers whenever someone moves. Every so often, an apple falls from the tree, hitting the ground with a _thump_.

It’s as if this castle and her heartbeat share a rhythm. Steady, even, and slow.

A sigh escapes her lips.

Somewhere in all this, she falls into a dreamless sleep. Why not? That passion flowing through her body is now mixed with a free-floating calmness she’s never known before.

Then.

“…If you merely _asked_ her, Lancer, you wouldn’t need to ‘wonder’.” It’s spoken in a whisper.

“I know that, but…”

Saber cracks open an eyelid, already awake. “Well, Lancer?” she asks with a voice still blurred with sleep. “Ask.”

Lancer’s upside down face sighs regretfully. “I should have guessed you wouldn’t rest for long. Ah, well, a nap is—”

“Lancer,” she says, kind yet firm. “Ask.”

Archer’s grin looks peculiar from this angle. “Consider yourself overruled, Lancer.”

“Ahem. Very well.” He glances toward the wife’s quarters. “It’s nearly noon. What shall we do?”

Saber sits up—placing polite distance between her and Archer—and ponders. What indeed?

Just then, an idea flashes through her head. _The massage felt so wonderful I wish it didn’t end. And it doesn’t_ have _to end—not necessarily. In fact…_  

The tide of passion flows back through her. A rare and honest opportunity to touch and be touched has been offered up. Certainly, it will come up again. Certainly, it’s something she’s never experienced. Thoughts of failure and foolishness buzz in the back of her mind like gnats. But in this moment, Saber aches for it anyway. _I should take this chance and at least try._  

“I will go with you. But…” She bites her lip. “…If I may, there’s something I wish to ask as well. A suggestion, you could say.”

“Go on,” Archer says, pleased.

Saber smiles shyly down at her lap. “If possible, I wish to be massaged by you two again. But more— _full-bodied_ this time.”

The column of Lancer’s throat bobs. “Y-Your entire body…is that so?” He threads a hand through his hair. “…I have no objections. What about you, Archer?”

“None whatsoever,” Archer purrs. He looks to Saber and tilts his head coyly to one side. “Speaking of which: Saber, you don’t wish for a kiss before we depart? You could call that a massage as well.”

She can’t keep herself from fidgeting; the question caught her by surprise. There _is_ a sort of courtship going on between her and Archer today. That could be seen from the battlements. And she admits she’s curious about this man, who Lancer deemed worthy of sharing his bed. 

“…Would that be allowed? If so, then—yes.” 

“Of course,” Lancer says, glancing between them with a shy smile. “You should feel pleasure as well, Saber. Now: which of us should it be?”

Archer wets his lips with the tip of his tongue. “Saber…” He says her name in a sweet, sultry voice. “…Since you endured today's seduction game so admirably, allow me to do the honors.”

Saber looks to Lancer for confirmation, and is relieved to find curiosity rather than envy on his face.

“You may,” she says in as clear a voice as she can manage.

Archer slips through their polite distance with feline grace, pointedly giving Lancer an unobstructed view. His eyes are almost all pupil, like onyx rimmed with rubies.     

“If you wish,” he says playfully, “you may think of this as an indirect kiss from Lancer.”

She stares up at him, one king to another. “…You need only kiss me once, Archer. Then we can depart.”

Lancer shifts his weight from side to side. “That seems fair, but—please enjoy it as well, Saber.”

Archer laughs under his breath. He lifts her chin and rubs a thumb delicately across the curve of her lips, coaxing them to part at his touch.

“Already delightful,” he murmurs, resting his thumb on her cheek. “Now I understand Lancer's little memory lapse.”

Lancer bites his lip. “My apologies.”

Archer nods absently. With agonizing slowness, he dips his head to Saber's. 

All this teasing, these innuendos and seduction games—Lancer must have the patience of a saint. And the willpower of a god to match. Blood roars in Saber's ears. The length of her body feels flushed and aching.

All the while Archer's lips move ever closer, yet still out of reach. 

Unable to stand the tension any longer, Saber grabs a fistful of linen and yanks his mouth down to meet hers. Then she realizes her mistake.

Archer hums in pleasure against her mouth, the vibration sending tingling heat down her back. This is a slow kiss, one that sears and savors. A faint taste of wine dampens her mouth. His fingers move from her chin to the back of her neck, stroking her nape.

Saber’s lips tingle with each too-soft touch. _Is this a single kiss?_ A wet, sultry sound echoes in her ears. Archer’s mouth is soft and sweet…not unlike Lancer’s. She may as well be melting.

Somewhere close by, Lancer sucks in a breath. It’s understandable. _To think that_ this _is what he feels on a daily basis—he should be proud of his accomplishments._

Her trembling fingers fall from Archer’s tunic…

…And then he pulls away, his crimson eyes glinting in pleasure. “I _do_ hope that was to your satisfaction, Saber,” he murmurs.

She quickly composes herself. “Yes. Thank you.”

“Now then.” Archer turns his head toward Lancer, who looks as stunned as Saber feels. “Come here, Lancer. You must enjoy yourself as well.”

Lancer nods, crawling forward. An eager flush coats his cheeks and the hollow of his throat. “Do you have a clear view, Saber?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

Saber nods.

“Good.” Archer inclines his head, and Lancer follows his path instinctively.

As if to sound an opening note, the wind stirs the branches above.

With surprising tenderness, their lips join.

It’s soft, barely even a touch. And yet Saber can see a shiver flow through Lancer’s body from head to toe.

When their lips brush again, Lancer's hands reach up to pull that pleasure within his grasp. Could this be his limit? There’s a faint tremble in his fingers, as if even this much overwhelms him.

“There, there.” Archer pins Lancer’s hands to his lap, mouth hovering just out of reach. “Saber kissed you gently, did she not?”

 A sigh of longing shudders through Lancer's powerful frame. “Yes—however, just now—”

Archer smiles at him with open fondness. “—I see. You wish for a proper taste.”

Saber’s toes curl in her shoes. “A _what_?”

“ _Yes_.” Lancer bares the curve of his neck. “Please. I need to…t-taste Saber again.”

His desperate words loop in her mind, erasing everything else.

After scant seconds, Archer relents. He even goes so far as to free Lancer’s arms. “Well done. Now part your lips for me…mm.”

It’s as if they were starving for this moment. Their kisses deepen and grow wetter. Soft, passionate sounds drench the air. As if handling something precious, their fingers dance along their already-flushed bodies.   

Pressing a hand over her mouth, Saber doesn't dare look away. How can she? As if she isn’t here—no, _because_ she’s here—Archer and Lancer’s mouths and hands explore each other with feverish abandon. 

She tries to keep her breathing even, but it’s no use. Sweetly molten heat flows through her veins, turning her suit into a too-tight restraint, damp and clinging.

“Archer,” Lancer whispers as they come up for air, his chest heaving with each breath. “As always, this was worth the wait. But—now Saber’s the one waiting.”

Saber clasps and unclasps her damp hands. “Not _necessarily._ ”  _How to put it? “_ I-If you wish to continue, by all means.”

“…In that case, this is enough for now.” Archer gives Lancer a final, soft kiss and stands in one fluid movement. Satisfaction practically seeps from every pore of him. “Let us be off. We have quite an enjoyable afternoon ahead of us.”

Saber swallows thickly. _Is this truly happening?_

It feels as though the pounding of her heart is as loud as war-drums. And yet, there’s something pleasant about having made a choice as well; it gives her much-needed focus.

Lancer rises to his feet and offers her a hand. His smile soothes her worries. “I’m pleased you’ve chosen to join us, Saber.”

She takes his offer and stands. “…Well, I can only do my best.”

“And that is all we ask for,” Archer says, unexpectedly gentle. His smile, warm as the sun, hints at slyness. “Rest assured: we’ll do our best to make your decision worthwhile.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, what do you know, the threesome's finally on its way! (And this is the triple-edited version.) Thanks for being patient all this time! :D Next chapter should be out faster, since I wrote ahead. It'll also be on a Friday, as that seems to work best.


	4. Reversal of Norms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saber attempts to let go of old habits. Some of them prove to be worth keeping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hallo! I tried to describe locations a bit more this chapter--wouldn't want it to feel like everyone's floating in a void. ^^; (That said, it's remarkably hard to keep track of character's limbs. To those writers who can: eternal respect!)

Saber follows between Archer and Lancer as they climb the stone steps of the wife’s quarters. The stairway is too narrow to walk side by side. Fortunately it comes equipped with a matching railing, cool and smooth to the touch. _Is it brownstone…or clay?_ It’s unclear.

“Saber,” Lancer asks behind her, “during your massage…how would you have us clothed?”

She needs a moment to consider. It’s surreal, knowing that soon she’ll be enjoying a full-body massage from two men. (Granted, some body parts may be skipped over.) She has no qualms being nude, but seeing others that way is different. _What_ would _be best? Seeing them in the nude might be too intense…and yet that might be necessary. The ‘mystery’ of their bodies will be solved at some point…_

Then she looks back to him. “Go with whichever makes you both more comfortable.”

“How thoughtful of you,” Archer says, already at the archway. “But what of your own tastes, Saber?”

“I would prefer both of you remain as clothed as possible,” she replies, simple and to the point.

Lancer hums as if confirming something.

“Hmm…perhaps there’s another way,” Archer says, resting a hand on his hip. “For example, if you were blindfolded, you could avoid seeing our nudity, and we could undress if needed.”

“That makes sense.” Saber narrows her eyes at him. “There must be a catch.”

“Only in the practical sense,” Lancer says. “It’d be best if you relied on us for movement, just to be safe.”

 _Oh._ She puts on a disaffected air. “I doubt either of you would tie a knot _that_ tight.”

Lancer shrugs one shoulder. “You never know.”

The blindfold idea _does_ have a practical purpose, and a certain appeal. Saber nods in approval.

“Good.” Archer ducks his head as he passes through the archway—and narrowly misses the clawed lamp-holder as he does so. He rubs at his shoulder, grumbling under his breath.

Saber rarely notices her height; today a small flicker of pleasure arcs her lips into a smile. _She_ doesn’t have that problem.

Compared to the sunlight outside, this entry hall is barely legible, drenched in shade. “Ugh,” she grunts, as she follows after Archer. Her eyes struggle to adjust, waving delicate neon veins before her eyes.

“One moment.” _Snap._

At Archer’s wordless command, the hall becomes awash in candlelight. The candles fixed to the stone walls are cloaked in rosy gauze; their light flickers across Archer’s face and body, enhancing each detail. She knows without checking that Lancer’s coloring suits this room as well.

“Thank you,” she mutters, glancing away.

Archer chuckles, his feet padding across the floor. “You’re quite welcome. Now, then—I wish to bathe. Would either of you care to accompany me?”

“Yes, that would be best,” Lancer says thoughtfully.

Her footsteps stutter. “I…Is there a means of privacy?”

“Of course,” Lancer reassures her. “I have no doubt Archer has a bathtub of some kind in his treasury.”

“As it happens, yes.” Amusement overflows from Archer's voice. “We’ll reach the solar soon; the bath and bedchambers are close by. Explore as you wish, Saber.”

Saber makes a noncommittal sound as they pass through another doorway and into the main entrance. It takes a moment for her eyes to adjust to yet another lighting change. For some reason the lone window’s curtains are closed. In order to truly see this entrance, she'll have to wait for the candles to be lit. (Or another time entirely.)

With only fragments of sunlight to guide her, she resorts to touch: a table's smooth wood glides against her fingers. A soft wool carpet sinks beneath her feet. Without warning, her fingers stumble across a harp, tripping out a mangled melody.

She snatches her hand away. “Forgive me.”

“Oh, it’s understandable,” Archer says. The entrance to a candlelit hall backlights his silhouette. “We rarely go through this area. Somehow, stray treasures accumulate here.”

With a spring in his step he strolls down the hall, humming that song from the library.  

“Clever,” she mutters, and idly follows him. Behind her, she can hear candlewicks flicking to life.

This hall is wider than most. The walls are lined with familiar claw-shaped candleholders and unfamiliar carvings of hunts and feasts. No doubt they’re from Archer’s time. (There aren’t any hunting dogs, as in her day. Nor foxes for that matter.) In the gauze-tinted light, they look ethereal, almost alive.   

After a moment, she feels rather than sees Lancer sidle up next to her. When she looks to him she finds a tender expression awaiting her.

“Saber…I didn’t dare believe you would come.”

Saber chuckles and rests a hand on her hip. “I needed time to decide. I must admit…I’m nervous.”

Lancer cocks his head to one side, his smile a gallant curve of the lips. “In that case, I’ll do my best to assuage your fears. But first…we should ready your bath.”

“I’m sure the castle can provide. You should freshen up first—and keep Archer company.”

“True,” he says, lowering his head. Then he shrugs and smiles. “Well, that will grant me more time to bathe.”

Saber nods. “I shall call for you if need be.”

Lancer nods agreeably, a slight flush already on his cheeks. Then he ambles off to share Archer’s bath.

Saber strolls through the wife’s quarters in silence. The scents of perfume and natural musk permeate the place, marking this as both men’s territory. _This place is a labyrinth! Small wonder I rarely saw Archer before…_

Two halls in, she finally spies an open door overflowing with sunlight.

Archer still hums, his voice clear now, closer. Lancer joins him, his tune more roughened by comparison. Splashing water makes for an otherworldly counterpoint.

Without a sound, she creeps through the open door to see the room beyond it. It soon becomes clear. It's the solar, with yet another future oddity: a gorgeous latticed window overhead to view the cloudless, sunlit sky…or the night’s shimmering stars. 

The contents of the room feel more familiar. A long cedar table and single chair stand in the center of the room; it’s meant for meals or writing. Instead, chessboard sits atop it: the game is unfinished. It’s an even match. Gilded pieces lie sprawled over each other on one side of the board, and standing neatly at attention on the other side. _I wonder which is which?_

Lancer and Archer’s laughter brings her back to where she’s needed—the present. She came here to satisfy her curiosity, and so she shall.

Two destinations lie down a short hall, branching off at opposite doors: the baths on the left, the bedchamber on the right. She takes the former.  _Let me see…if Archer and Lancer are still bathing, I should use the room next to theirs._

The varnished red door opens at the slightest touch of her hand, and she steps inside.

The first detail she notices: the floor is heated. She can feel it even through her shoes. Further, she chose a smaller room by accident. Regardless of size, it's luxurious enough to not feel claustrophobic. 

The heady scents of rose, jasmine and sandalwood fill Saber’s nose. (They must be from the pillar-like candles cradled in glass that surround the bath.)

At the sight of the “tub”, she stumbles back, unwittingly closing the door again. This… _monstrosity_ is more of a circular pool, complete with pearly marble tiling along the rim and rose petals floating in the clear water. Most of all, there's steam. It’s almost impossible to see anything. _I_ believe  _the walls are of brownstone…and towels are near the bath’s edge…_

“I need a smaller tub than _this_ ,” she mutters to herself. 

In answer, the castle provides a cast-iron tub already filled with water. Several washcloths and a bar of soap sit at the edge.

Memories of last night’s bath flood Saber’s mind in vivid detail. The soft, drenched fabric against her skin…her thoughts of Lancer…that orgasm that overwhelmed her senses like a wave of fire…it all returns in an instant. The sweet, seductive fragrances wafting around aren’t helping.

She wills her expression neutral. Even when alone, she can’t put her training aside. 

After fumbling around one side of the room, she finds a raised stair to sit on and get her bearings. If nothing else, the door is visible. Squinting, she spies a white massage table opposite her. It looks more like a bed, large and plush.  _How strange, yet convenient. Now then…_

Just as she reaches for her coat buttons, someone knocks tentatively at the door. “Who is it?” she asks, peering over and squinting to get a better look.

“Ah…it’s Lancer.” For some reason, he sounds embarrassed—or something close to it. “Are you indisposed?”

 _Oh, so that’s the issue._ “Not yet,” Saber says, resting her hands on her upraised knee. “Please, come in. This steam needs to escape—and I need to see.”

He laughs. “You adjust to it eventually!”

“I’d prefer that happen sooner rather than later.”

As she hoped, once the door opens, the steam recedes a bit.

Lancer’s cowlick enters the room before he does. His posture is surprisingly relaxed; no doubt the bath played a part. The candlelight gives his face a welcoming glow.

“You haven’t washed yet?” Archer asks, peering over Lancer’s shoulder.

Saber shrugs. “I was distracted by this…room. Unsurprisingly, it suits you.”

While Archer is wearing a fresh version of his modest attire, that means little when she can tell his skin's still flushed from the bath. A bead of sweat trickles down Archer's chest, wetting the edge of the collar.

A small towel is draped about his neck. He wipes his nape with it, the gesture slow and deliberate. “If you need assistance—”

She scoffs. “—That won’t be necessary. Excuse me.”

Silence. Taking that as a “yes, please disrobe” (after all, she’s making them wait), Saber briskly unbuttons her suit jacket and shrugs it off.   

Lancer sucks in a breath. “S-Saber…?!” He doesn’t usually sound or look so panicked. How odd. “You needn’t do such a thing!”

“But a full-body massage is involved.” Carefully, she folds her jacket and places it behind her. “Therefore, shouldn’t I disrobe?”

In an instant Lancer hovers at her side. “W-Well, yes. But…aren’t you embarrassed?”     

Saber smiles at the thought. “Of course not. After all, I’m in the company of trustworthy men.” When she meets Archer’s gaze, her smile morphs into a smirk. “And in any event, the King of Heroes here has seen enough bare flesh for a hundred lifetimes. I doubt _my_ body will draw your eye.”

“Do you, now?” Archer rests a hand on his hip, sauntering over to join them. “Then I shall do my utmost to praise it.”

Lancer’s hand brushes her sleeve. “Saber,” he murmurs, slight hesitance in his voice, “At the very least—may I serve you here as well?” His hand pulls away as if regretting his question. “I'm aware you're in good health, and I'm grateful for your trust. Still…I…” He falters, clicks his tongue. 

“Take your time,” Archer says gently. His fingers reach out, passing Saber's head to whisper against Lancer's cheek. “You needn’t rush.”

“Words often fail me as well,” Saber assures him, giving his hand a light squeeze. Its heat is somehow soothing against her skin. “Try stating it bluntly.”

Lancer exhales slowly, as if calmed by their words and touch. “Yet again, you have my thanks.” He steels himself beneath her palm. “Then from my blunt lips to your ears: Saber. May I attend you, as a knight to a king? It would give me no greater honor.”

There’s a hint of stumbling at the “a”, like he meant a different word entirely. It’s easy to guess. That intimate implication sinks down into Saber’s belly in a pulse of heat.

“You may, Sir knight. In fact, I would be honored.”

Her words seem to hang in the air, their spell only broken by the far stronger enchantment of Lancer sinking to his knees before her. That sight is enough to ease her legs open slightly, allowing him more room. 

“Well done,” Archer purrs, going to lean against the nearby wall. The King of Heroes needs  the best view. 

With a humble smile, Lancer reaches up to unbutton Saber’s shirt, his touch light yet slow. His hands are warm and soft, smoothed by the bath. The buttons surrender to his careful hands—as if they’re acting in tandem.

Row by row, her muscled flesh is bared to Archer and Lancer’s eyes.

“No doubt you prefer a softer build,” she murmurs, fighting the urge to cover herself with her hands.

Lancer’s breath hitches; a sweet sound. “No, Saber…you’ve honed your body well.” His eyes trail over the taut muscles of her torso and arms, undisguised lust on his face. “It’s beautiful.”

She gulps. “What? N-No, you’re mistaken.”

“Doubt us as you will.” Hunger fills Archer’s voice. “Regardless, you deserve worship.”  

Lancer nods and eases her shirt off her shoulders. “Allow us to prove it to you,” he says, as he folds her shirt over the chair.

She worries her lower lip. “…Very well.”

He beams, returning to his task.  

Thanks to the foot massage earlier, the sight and sensation of Lancer at her feet lacks some of its previous novelty. However, the circumstances heighten his touch. His whole body seems to bend toward this task. It’s as if serving her were the most natural—no, the most _beloved_ duty in his world.

Saber clears her throat. “Should I stand?”

“Not yet,” Lancer says, gliding his fingers up Saber’s trousers and leaving prickling heat in his wake through the fabric. “If we time this correctly—ah.” His hands pause at her knees. “Saber? Is something wrong?”

Saber wills her legs to stop quivering, but that’s a fool’s errand now. She shakes her head. “I’m fine. Just…I haven’t been touched like this for many years. Please continue.”

Lancer hums in affirmation as his hands travel to her trousers zipper. His fingers tremble. The sounds of the button sliding free and the zipper rasping down feel as loud as thunder.

_…Am I imagining things, or can I feel his breath?_

The fabric of his armor whispers against the floor as he sits back on his heels. “Please stand, Saber.”

Saber does so, a little unstable. From behind, Archer's hands curve about her waist to steady her. 

Lancer’s timing proved correct: gravity begins the work, and he completes it, gliding the trousers down her legs with painstaking slowness. It tickles—and not unpleasantly. Saber’s skin perceives every thread of rich cotton as it slips down her thighs, pools at her knees. _How strange, that only now can I appreciate the quality of Irisviel’s gift…_

She steps out of the trousers the rest of the way, and hears a gasp. “Lancer?” 

“Y-Your undergarments,” he manages, a crimson flush spreading across his face and ears. “Those are…smaller than I expected.” He tugs at his collar. “And tight.”

“They’re quite comfortable,” she assures him, amused at his response.  

Archer hums in approval. “They cradle and emphasize exquisitely. You have good taste, Saber.”

“…Th-thank you. I suppose.” She reaches out to give Lancer’s shoulder a brief pat. “Can I trust you to remove them, Lancer?”

Lancer’s throat bobs as he swallows. “O-Of course.”

So saying, he drags his fingers up to the waistband of her underwear, hooking it. Then—after visibly steeling his resolve—he begins to ease them downwards.  

Before, she could only imagine it. Now, nothing stands between Lancer’s hot breath and her skin. Her underwear doesn’t help. They’re already damp, and when the cotton slips down her thighs, the steamy breeze that follows coaxes a shiver across her bared flesh.

At the sight, Lancer mimics her. “Is…is this Archer’s doing?”

Saber bites her lip. “Both of you are the cause.”

“Truly?”  

“Of course,” Archer says languidly. “Give yourself more credit, Lancer!”

The little hairs on her legs stand up with each movement, whether it’s the soft slide of cotton or Lancer’s fingers or his breath. Once Lancer reaches below her knees, she steps out of her underwear and bares herself fully.  

“I hate to rush things,” she says, “but I fear the bath will grow cold soon.” 

Lancer nods agreeably. “Do you need help entering it?”

“No, thank you. I can take it from here.” Saber has enough presence of mind to reach out and run a gentle hand through Lancer’s hair. It’s soft, slightly damp. The way his eyes widen in surprise and flutter shut, offering himself up to her touch, is beyond her expectations.

“Good work, Sir knight,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

He shivers, overwhelmed with joy. A sigh of pleasure and satisfaction leaks from his lips, a treasure unto itself.

Unfortunately, the bath is waiting. And her body needs breathing space, after such intimacy.

“You won’t need to wait much longer,” she assures Archer, stepping and sinking into the bath. Grabbing soap and washcloth she sets to work.

“Why would we mind?” he asks over the sounds of scrubbing.

Lancer shrugs and glides to his feet. “Perhaps her patience is at its limit.”

“…Something like that.” Saber remains quick but thorough in her cleaning—indulging in this new experience, she wants the massage to be front and center.

Archer grins. “Think of this as ‘whetting your appetite’ before a banquet of pleasure.”

Lancer laughs under his breath. “I see now. You aim to tease us a while longer.”

“…Alas, you know me too well. However, it’s best for such a thing to be out in the open.” Archer gives a half-shrug. “Miscommunication in matters such as these is so… _old-fashioned._ ”

“True. Consider this my apology, as I forgot to tell you about kissing Saber.”

She frowns at him, no doubt looking strange with the washcloth plastered to her back. “You needn’t go that far.”

“Indeed. As Saber says, you’re already forgiven—but I accept it regardless.”

Her shoulders strain as she scrubs her back, droplets of water trickling down the curve of her spine. _It’s as I suspected. Archer had already guessed what happened. I simply confirmed it._

A short while later, she leaves the bath and finds a fresh towel and pair of underwear awaiting her. She doesn’t need the former for long, but the latter…

“Should I keep these on?” she asks, pausing in the act of stepping into the underwear.

“Certainly.” Archer snaps his fingers; another towel floats onto the massage bed in a burst of gold. “Whenever you’re ready, Saber. Starting at your legs and back would be best.”

“Let me reach the massage bed, first.” Saber does so. The mattress sinks and rises beneath her thighs as she sits, taking her weight. Terrycloth from the towel tickles her palms.

An eager smile spreads across Lancer's face. “What would you have of me, Archer?” he asks.

“You may tie the blindfold.” While she was getting comfortable, it seems Archer already found a solution. He silently holds a black silk scarf toward Lancer, who takes it with care.

Lancer takes his time walking over to the bed. Perhaps he’s struggling to keep his balance. _It’s understandable, considering the circumstances._

“Sit by me,” Saber commands gently. “That way, you can see better.”

Lancer does so with a self-deprecating smile. “You have my thanks.” He shifts his weight then relaxes. “This is surprisingly sturdy.”

She tries not to quiver at the closeness of their bodies. If yesterday’s proximity felt shockingly intimate, today’s has an undercurrent of tense desire.

That undercurrent grows stronger when Archer moves to sit on her opposite side. He’s careful to not be as close as Lancer, giving her that inch of space. Not that it matters. Somehow, this further emphasizes the difference between their bodies: hers, while toned and durable, is still petite compared to these svelte, statuesque men.  

Lancer must feel it as well. “Are you ready, Saber?”

“Yes.” She closes her eyes, holding her head high to give him more room.

Fabric further darkens her vision, soft and refreshingly cool against her skin. It travels to the back of her head in an instant. Lancer ties the knot with steady and careful hands, his fingers brushing her nape. It’s enough to make her twitch.

“Did that tickle?” Warm breath strokes against her ears. “My apologies.”

“It’s fine,” she says, refusing to jerk away.

Archer’s chuckle vibrates against her arm. “Your cheeks are flushed. This is a becoming look for you, Saber.”

"Thank you," she replies as cordially as she can. Compliments such as that are rare for her.

“Lancer,” Archer says, “guide Saber onto her belly; we mustn't have her fall.”

“Right.” Lancer stands, back beside her in short order. “Back up a little farther, Saber—yes, that should do.” With more care than is probably necessary, he curls an arm around Saber's waist and helps her onto all fours.

It's a strange sensation, the world slowly turning without her seeing it. From there, it's easier: all she need do is crawl onto the fluffy towel and lie down. The fabric nuzzles her belly and chest with each breath. Archer and Lancer must be standing, as she can't feel their weight at her sides.

Somewhere above her, a stopper is pulled loose: wood clacks against clay. It's from a new kind of massage oil. A lush, luxurious fragrance fills the air. At first it competes with the candles’ scent. Then, bit-by-bit, it melds with them.

“I’m ready,” she says, her eagerness barely concealed.

Lancer laughs under his breath. “That _is_ good to hear, but we haven’t coated our hands enough yet. A moment, please.”

Her fingers curl in the towel. “O-Oh. Pardon me.”

“You needn’t temper your enthusiasm,” Archer says, reassuring and seductive. “Rather, allow yourself to relax.”

A man like him makes it sound simple. Saber expects he’ll find knots of tension on her person as solid and hard as tree roots. Still, she does her best to let herself sink into the bed. _Hmm…the mattress is quite firm. Which is good; otherwise how could it take our weight before?_  

“…There,” Lancer says, bringing her back to the present. “Now we can begin.”

Two pairs of hands coated in slick warmth descend upon her flesh. Starting at her ankles and massaging their ways upwards, they rub and soothe with relentless, gentle pressure. 

At first touch, it’s hard to tell which is which. Presumably Archer and Lancer are still on the same sides. But when both are equally skilled, why should that matter? Little by little, her muscles melt under their coaxing.

She sighs in bliss as fingers lightly squeeze and roll the cord-tight knots in her back. “…Yes, stay there for awhile.”

“As you wish,” Archer says, amused. “My, you’re quite tense here. But then that’s to be expected.”   

“True,” Lancer says. His hands glide down the length of her legs, back to her thighs. “You carried the weight of Britain on your shoulders. And now…”

Saber sighs again as Lancer pays particular attention to her thighs. “…This feels good…”

Archer chuckles. “To think praise would fall from your lips so easily.”

It’s difficult to tell how long it takes—perhaps an hour, perhaps a few minutes. But there comes a point when Saber’s sex begins to throb uncontrollably, eager for its own contact. Though she tries to hide it, it must be obvious.

Lancer’s breath quickens, and Archer’s fingers roam down the length of her spine.

Saber bites her lip, tries to keep her hips from arching upwards. 

Oil from Archer’s hand trails over the curve of her backside as he massages it in. “Where else should we tend to?”

Saber’s hips shift awkwardly from side to side. “…There is only one place you haven’t touched.” Nervousness tickles her chest.  “Or rather two.”

“Your chest being one,” Lancer says. His hands stop at her side, ready to ease her onto her back if needed. “That can be arranged.”

“I may react strangely,” Saber warns, as with Lancer’s help she rolls over. “In life they…weren’t often touched by others.”

“Humph. Then those ‘others’ were fools.” Even blindfolded, Archer’s lusting appraisal smolders against her skin.

“Guinevere was shy, and we had a secret to keep,” she retorts, unwilling to let such a remark slide.

There’s no response. Not that she required one.

Oiled hands start from her wrists and massage their way up her arms, paying special attention to her muscles. They cup and rub them as if they were treasures to be polished. _It's a bit...embarrassing. Even Morgan never treated them this way._  

“Can you picture it, Lancer?” Archer asks in a whisper, his fingers kneading Saber’s shoulder. “Clinging to Saber’s shoulders…or feeling her hand at your neck, easing you down…?”

Lancer’s moan of longing in response vibrates deliciously from his hand through Saber’s body. “—But Archer—”

“—Oh, never fear. We’ll give Saber pleasure first.” So saying, Archer’s hand travels down to her chest. He sighs indulgently. “It was unclear before, but…Saber, your breasts are quite lovely.”

“They’re small,” she grumbles.

“I see,” Lancer says, following Archer’s example. “Then you prefer them large.”

Saber’s face burns then scorches as Archer jokes “That much is clear, given how she reacted to _you_.”

“Th-that isn’t the point. I meant that _you_ would find them small.”

“Hmm.” Lancer’s fingers cup her breast. “No, they fill my hand perfectly.” He massages it in slow circles, letting it flow from his hand and then back.

“Indeed they do.” Archer’s fingertips trace the valley between her breasts—mimicking how she touched him earlier. “…That’s quite a technique you have, mongrel. Let me try.”

“Together, then,” Lancer murmurs, clearly pleased. “One…two…”

A shuddering gasp passes Saber’s lips.

It’s as if their hands have turned to waves, rolling back and forth along the curves of her breasts. Her back curves into the touch, sending oil trickling down her sides. Every now and then, their thumbs play with her nipples, coaxing them to harden. Then their touch ebbs away…until the next pass.

“Your skin is already glistening, Saber,” Archer says languidly, his knuckles grazing her flesh. “Shall we move on?”

As tempting as it is to say she’s used to pain (which is true), it’s equally true that her nipples are beginning to hurt. By contrast, her breasts feel quite warm and soothed. _They’re too sensitive for this sort of thing, after all…_

“Please,” she manages. “…Perhaps my stomach can be massaged?”

“Of course.” Lancer’s hands flow like liquid down to her belly, slicking it with oil. “Wherever you wish to be touched, I— _we_ —will comply.”

Having her belly—her most vulnerable spot—not only exposed but caressed takes getting used to. It’s still pleasant, however. Whenever a stray finger catches on the dip of her navel, a spark of passion shoots like an arrow through her waist.

“Enough,” she soon says, her fingers clenching and releasing the towel. “I have…another place in mind.”

“Of course.” Archer’s fingers trace along the waistband of her underwear, coaxing her to arch her back like a cat. “I assure you, it wasn’t far from our thoughts.”

There’s an audible gulp from Lancer. “D-Do you wish for us to touch there?”

Jittering with nerves as she is, she can’t help but impatiently lift her hips in answer.

“… _Well_.” He laughs in quiet embarrassment. “Duly noted.”

“And duly acted upon,” Archer says, picking up something close at hand. “First…hold your hips up a moment longer. More oil will ease things along. Like so.”

Saber gasps as warm, smooth oil pours between her thighs. Her hips jolt up to meet it. As if with a will of its own, rivulets of oil soak her underwear and drip onto the towel. Even this indirect touch sends tingling, aching pleasure through her sex.

Lancer sucks in a breath. “Oh, _gods_ …!”

“Yes, what a captivating sight,” Archer purrs seductively. “You needn’t exert yourself, Saber. While you were… _occupied_ , I placed a pillow beneath the towel. It’s for our mutual comfort.”

Regaining her composure, she guides her waist back down. The pillow takes the weight of her hips, propping her up. _It_ is _comfortable._ She bites her lip.  _And yet—the oil is—_

By some miracle Archer interrupts her thoughts. “Good.” His hands cup the oiled cheeks of her backside, kneading them in slow circles. “Now. Look well, Lancer.”   

Saber’s lips part in pleasant shock as Archer’s strokes caress her sex as well. It isn’t a direct touch. Rather, it seems to travel through her rear to her thighs…and from there to…

“…Mm. The flower unfurling here has been untended for too long.” She can almost see Archer’s sly smile, the slow journey of his tongue along his lips. “The bud is deliciously swollen as well. Is the oil to blame for this slickness? I wonder.”

Blood roars in her ears. “Don’t enter it—!” Shivering and tense, she's close to smacking his hand away. The very thought feels profane. Hypocritical it may be, but as a knight and king... 

Archer sighs in disappointment. Still, he obeys her.

“As you wish,” Lancer says, giving her hand a soothing squeeze. “If you haven’t felt another’s touch in so long…would you prefer an indirect massage?” 

Saber nods. “Lightly. Along the—er—‘petals’ as Archer put it.”

“Here?” Archer’s finger traces her folds.

Saber whimpers in answer, letting her hips rock to meet him.

It’s impossible to speak while Lancer’s hands join Archer’s. (The slight shiver gives him away.) They caress along the drenched curves of her thighs, her underwear, yet give her sex the lightest brush. It’s pleasurable, without a doubt. But…

…But as luck would have it, now that her breasts lie unattended, they ache to be touched again. Visions of Lancer and Archer’s mouths on them float through her head: another reversal of norms. And yet, not quite taboo. 

She breathes in and out with more force than necessary, hoping that provides a clue.

It doesn’t—at least not as intended.

“What would give you pleasure, Saber?” Archer asks, having the nerve to retract his touch entirely. “If you stay silent, we cannot know of it.”

Saber nods, but the words refuse to come.

“You’re quivering,” Lancer says softly, as if entranced. He pulls his hands away as well. “What else do you need, Saber?”

Since they’re sincerely curious, she may as well answer. _It’s a bit…embarrassing. Regardless, I want it._

Saber gathers her strength, manages to speak. “It may not be a massage, but I would appreciate it if you would—use your mouths on my breasts.”

It goes over better than expected. “Who would you prefer first, Archer or myself?”

Saber bites her lip, unsure how to answer—if there _is_ an answer. “Well. I’m unsure. Who would _you_ prefer?”

Lancer’s breathing quickens again. “M-Myself.”

Archer laughs warmly. “That _would_ make for a delicious view. In that case…” His hands glide across her inner thighs, keeping up that indirect massage. “…I shall remain here for now, to give you room.”

“Thank you,” Lancer murmurs, sounding dizzy.

“Now then…relax, Saber.”

It takes a few slow, deep breaths for her to do so. Then a whimper threatens to escape her lips: on Lancer’s side, her drenched breast is being feathered with kisses. Yet another spark of heat sinks into her flesh.

Archer sighs again, his pleasure even more obvious. “What a wonderful shiver just now. Saber, have you ever felt someone taste your breasts before?”

“I’ve done so to Guinevere…and Morgan,” she admits. “They enjoyed it very much.”

“I can imagine,” Lancer says, already cradling her breast in his huge hand. “Then, in that case—”

Enough dithering. Saber’s breasts ache, her body throbs with hot desire, and Lancer’s breath sears her tender skin.

“—I wish to feel it, _now_.”

“As you command,” Lancer breathes, and dips his head down.

She expects the wet heat of his lips and tongue. What makes her bite back a moan is the way he sets to worshiping her. For what else could she call his feather-soft kisses, his tongue laving at her nipple, the wet pull of his lips? With his other hand, he cups her unattended breast, massages it with careful fingers.

Even so, she doesn’t say a word.

“Why do you hold back your voice, Saber?” Lancer asks. He gasps sweetly as his lips brush her taut nipple. “To hear your pleasure…there could be no greater gift.”

Who could resist such sincerity? Her small, hesitant sigh breaks the silence.    

“That’s it,” Archer croons against her skin, kissing his way up her chest. His heated breath caresses her drenched breast, and she gives an eager shiver. “Entrust your body to us.”

“Yes… _ah_!” Saber’s pulse quickens.   

Archer and Lancer touch in tandem, loving her with eager hands and mouths. Her body tilts up to meet them, yearning for more. Whether it’s Archer’s relentless swirling tongue or Lancer’s hot mouth against her nipple, all she can do is savor and enjoy.

“…More…” she sighs, beyond willing now. What embarrassment she felt before languorously ebbs away.

“And more you shall have,” Archer says with a moan. Between her drenched thighs, his fingers continue their playful massage. Each tiny rub brings another shiver.

Heat coils in her belly, drawing her flesh taut. Her sex throbs like a separate heart, faster and faster. The tension drags a ragged cry from her throat.

“Yes, let it flow through you, Saber…!” Lancer comes close to pleading.

“Seek it.” The pace of Archer’s fingers grows to match her ceaseless throbbing. “Claim it.”

Then—somehow—they redouble their efforts in pleasuring her.  

It’s almost beyond her understanding. _How can these men hold off their pleasure for mine?_ In her mind’s eye, she imagines the firm ridges of their arousals straining against their clothes, desperate for release. Her mouth grows dry. _I could relieve them. With my hands and lips, to share with them the pleasure they’re giving me…_

“Are you close?” Archer asks playfully.

Through the tingling fervor drowning her mind, it’s impossible to say. No doubt he already knows.

Her hot flesh rubs feverishly against the soft towel, against their slick, generous fingers and mouths. “Something is—coming—”

“Please, Saber.” Now Lancer begs, his voice and touch spurring her on.

“Allow it,” Archer adds in a melting whisper. “Let us see it.”

Each shuddering intake of breath heats her mouth, her throat.  Electric waves of pleasure flow through her in a voluptuous rush.

This is what Lancer and Archer will feel. Through whatever means Saber can use, she will fill them with indescribable desire. Every slow thrust, every relentless, gentle stroke will intoxicate them better than any wine. And then—then she'll bring them satisfaction, over and over until each of them are spent.

They deserve nothing less.

As if from far away, a strange sound reaches her ears. It’s a primal, untamed cry, giving voice to wordless carnal wants. Perhaps it’s hers.

Heat coils in her belly; it rises and rises without end. Then…relief. A small orgasm ripples from between her legs, no less satisfying than any other.

The tension in Saber’s body winds down. Someone—possibly Lancer—takes her hand in his and gives it a brief, reassuring squeeze.

Someone leans over her. The sound of something being licked floats through Saber’s consciousness. Archer’s moan confirms the source, if not the context. Perhaps he’s kissing Lancer, or vice-versa.

“Yes, savor it, mongrel.” Archer’s voice, low and passionate. “You deserve a taste as well.”

 _A taste?_ Saber doesn’t follow. Then she shrugs it off. _That doesn’t matter. Let them enjoy themselves._

Once her mind grows coherent again, she manages to speak. “Archer, Lancer. Thank you.” A sense of cool rejuvenation washes over her, despite the tingling aftershocks. “That was…wonderful.”

“I’m glad,” Lancer says—it seems he wasn’t the one holding her hand. “It was an honor to please you.”

“You made a quick recovery, Saber,” Archer notes. “How do you feel?”

“Satisfied; relaxed as well.” She moves to take off the blindfold.

“Leave it on, Saber,” Archer says, the bed jiggling as he sits back beside her. “We should put it to good use while we have it.”

“What do you mean?” Lancer asks. Saber has similar questions.

“It’s our turn.” Archer chuckles indulgently.

“…Oh.” Lancer’s clothes rustle. “Well, that seems fair, but…”

“What do you—ah, I see. You’re overcome with shyness.” Surprisingly, Archer doesn’t seem annoyed about it. Rather, he sounds pleased. “See for yourself, Saber.”

Curious, she reaches back to remove the blindfold. The fabric falls away with ease. The world shifts from darkness to bursting with color. Blinking helps, but only just. Then, once she sits up and her vision clears…

Lancer stands ramrod-straight at her side, his hands pointedly blocking his groin from view. His eyes flick about like a startled horse’s, refusing to meet her gaze. In this new light, the color rising on his cheeks and ears is a striking vermillion.

Archer chuckles again. “Captivating, isn’t it?”

Saber nods. “And cute.”

Lancer achieves the impossible: growing more flushed and flustered still. “C-‘Captivating’…? ‘Cute’…?” He turns his back to them as if waiting for dismissal. “That’s, well—never mind.” 

Even if he can’t see it, Saber gives him a reassuring smile. “If you’re uncomfortable, we can stop for today.”

“Correct,” Archer says, standing and strolling over to Lancer. “Time stretches out endlessly before us, and we may use it as we wish.”

Lancer drapes a companionable arm around Archer’s shoulder. “You have a point. Well, if neither of you minds ending this here for now, I’m glad of it.”

“Wait,” Saber says, standing as well. “I have a question.”

Both men turn to look at her curiously.

“How to put it…what did you two ‘gain' by massaging me?”

“Pleasure,” Archer says with a shrug. “Of both flesh and soul. As simple and common as it seems, it is quite valuable nonetheless.”

“…Ah. I see. What about you, Lancer?”

There’s a long, thoughtful pause before he speaks. He turns to face her, his hand now resting against Archer’s back. “That is…hard to put into words,” he begins. “Archer described it well—but I feel there’s more to it than that.”

Saber waits patiently for him to continue. A small, pleased smile hovers about Archer’s lips; he must guess what’s to come.

Lancer grins self-deprecatingly. “Hmm. I won’t use words after all.” He gives Archer a shy glance. “King of Heroes, if I may. A chaste demonstration would be best.”

He receives an approving nod.

In the blink of an eye, Lancer strides out of the bathing room. There’s an obvious purpose in mind. Which is rather odd: Saber didn’t hear an order being given.

“The solar would be best,” Archer calls for Lancer’s benefit, and grins at the returning call that follows.

“The solar…?” Saber blinks in confusion.

“Eating here would feel strange.” So saying, Archer stretches and turns to her clothes, folded carefully out of the way. “The oil should be dry by now; do you wish to dress?”

Saber smiles. “Yes, Lancer would appreciate the gesture.” She looks down at her underwear and winces. “But first, I’ll need to change out of these.”

“Heh. Very sensible.”

\---

The solar is warm in a different sense than the baths: the sun’s heat filters into the room, panting the surroundings in white. Archer and Saber sit at the table in companionable silence.

“So you were hungry,” Saber says, admiring the chessboard once again. “How did Lancer know?”

Archer drapes an arm over the back of his chair, smiling. “Innate attentiveness, and a desire to please.”

She looks at him askance. “He isn’t a dog.”

“…Ah, it _was_ phrased that way, wasn’t it?” Archer purses his lips. “I meant that those are _virtues_ —worthy of encouragement and reward.”   

Lancer reappears, ambling down the hall toward them. A clay bowl is carefully balanced in his hands, filled with sliced peaches that gleam like topaz in the sunlight.

“These are for us to share,” Lancer says as he sets the bowl in the middle of the table. He takes a seat next to Archer, his hands on his knees. “Since you two only ate breakfast.”

On instinct, Saber opens her mouth to say she isn’t hungry. Closes it. “That’s…true. I didn’t notice until now.”

“I find that difficult to believe,” Archer says, his face half in light, half in shadow. “Food clearly gives you great joy!”

Saber smiles and shakes her head. “I suppose that’s true. But I am used to going without. I did so many times in the front.”

Archer’s expression turns blank. “Did you plan to ‘go without’ if Lancer and I had ‘our turn’?”

She looks to the window, avoiding his gaze. “Why would that matter? I’ve already taken my pleasure. As I said: on the battlefield, I had no such luxury.”  

“But King of Knights _,_ ” Lancer murmurs, his voice rough and unexpectedly sad, “this is no battlefield _._ ”

Outside, a chorus of birds trill and chirp. Their merriment only serves to underscore the seriousness of his words.

A strange, heavy feeling—one not unlike when she first arrived here—wells up inside her. It’s as if she rounded a corner of a labyrinth, a few steps from the end…only to trip over a forgotten ball and chain gripping her ankle. _Why now?_

“…I know.” She wants to say that next time she’ll tend to herself afterwards, but a lie like that is easily rebuked. “To speak plainly, I would rather give pleasure than receive it.” Attempting comfort, her body curls in on itself, resting her chin against her knees. “That’s all I know how to do.”

Even speaking it aloud feels forbidden, shameful. While the massage was meant as a beginner’s lesson in desire—and it did indeed feel pleasant—it feels as if she failed.

“Does this distance bring you joy?” Archer asks, unexpectedly gentle.

“Often—well, no, perhaps not. My one certainty is I…” A lump forms in her throat; she struggles to clear it. “…I wish to learn of my desires. Truly. But I have no idea _how_.”

Silence fills the room like toxic fumes.

Lancer reaches over to the bowl and takes a slice of peach. Juice glints on his fingers. He pops it into his mouth, his expression unreadable.

“How is it?” Saber asks, false-cheeriness chafing her throat.

Lancer’s throat bobs as he swallows. “Good.” His gaze flicks from the bowl to Archer to Saber, shy again. “In my opinion, it would taste better from your hand. I-If you allow it.”

This must be his way of repaying her: one chivalrous act for another. Saber wills her expression neutral. “Certainly.”

She reaches for the bowl, plucking the nearest slice at hand. The “fur” on the sunset skin has been cut away, leaving it smooth to the touch. Her fingers grow sticky with juice. It takes little effort to lean forward, her fingers haloed by the sun’s rays.

“Say ‘aah’, Lancer,” she says, her skin prickling with tension and shyness.

His lips part—whether in obedience or surprise is unclear. After some fumbling as he struggles to avoid grazing her with his teeth, the slice passes into his mouth and her fingers come out unscathed.

“ _Now_ how is it?” Archer asks, smirking like he already knows the answer.

Lancer chews in consideration for a moment. A gentle smile flits across his face. “…Delicious. My thanks, Saber.”

She smiles back. The lump in her throat is beginning to fade.

Archer chuckles and looks to Saber. “I would taste one from your hands as well.”

“I expected that.” Her fingers find an extra juicy peach slice; this time she holds a palm beneath it to keep from staining the table. Unfortunately, that makes it harder to carry the peach over as before.

An answer comes to her—but it’s one that turns her chest tight.

“This time, I need to go to your side.” Juice pools in her palm. “Is that acceptable, Archer?”

“Of course.” He goes so far as to pat his knee in invitation. Which was exactly her concern. 

She scoffs. “You would put your finery in harm’s way? How unexpected.”

Lancer snickers. “Never underestimate Archer’s pursuit of pleasure.”

Pleasure or no, she won’t let him get his way so easily. After circling around the table to Archer’s side, she makes a point of standing. Both men smile with amused respect.

“Here, Archer.” She bows at the waist, holding out the slice. “Say ‘aah’.”

The sentence barely crosses her lips before he leans forward. “‘Aah’,” he says, his tone too innocent. Grasping the slice’s tip between his teeth, he gives it a delicate nibble before drawing back.

“…How is it?” Saber asks, suspicious.

Archer flicks a glance up at her then to the side. He could be considering the taste…or acting coy. “Hmm. There was more skin than flesh in that mouthful.” His gaze scrolls back to her, glinting in the sunlight. “Again.”  

“Courtship through food,” Lancer grumbles good-naturedly, “have you no shame?”

Archer grins over his shoulder at him. “No.” He turns back to Saber, licking his lips. “Again.”

A better idea comes to her. Straightening up, she pops the remaining slice in her mouth; the sweet flesh practically melts on her tongue. “It was good,” she murmurs, before licking her palm clean like a cat. Her skin tastes like sugar and salt.  

“Humph. I see; you would have me work for it.” Archer tilts his head to one side and grins. “Very well, it could prove amusing.”

Saber takes another slice of peach. This one is larger than the others. The red remnants of where the pit once was nestled might explain why. With a steady hand, she holds it out to him. (Her fingers are clinging to the end opposite Archer, far from his teeth.)

“‘Aah’,” Archer says without prompting. There’s no sign of tongue or teeth, even from this angle.

He takes a slightly bigger bite than before; the fruit shakes in her grip. It’s a clean cut. Saber can almost feel his jaw and teeth clamp down—and this time, he doesn’t draw back. Not all the way. Just enough that she can see him chew slowly, swallow with eyes closed in rapture.

“An excellent choice.” His warm breath tickles her thumb and fingers. “Lancer, come closer and have a taste.”

It’s easy to imagine what he means: Archer and Lancer, sharing dainties from her hand. _That would be…charming._ She fights back another prickling blush.

Lancer, for his part, loses his fight. “…How? If I do so, I’ll be in Saber’s way.”

Archer pulls back a bit, clicking his tongue. “What a dull response. I’m certain you can do better than _that_.”

Saber’s mind is overflowing with ideas this afternoon. “This may be rude, but—I can perch on the table’s edge between you.”

“Oh.” Lancer looks to Archer. “Your thoughts, Archer?”

He grins and gestures for her to sit.    

Passing between them with care, so as not to drop the peach slice, she turns her back to the table. Gives a small hop. The wood presses hard against her thighs. Everything's going well so far.

Until it creaks under her weight.

Visions of property damage crash through her head. “—Never mind, this table can’t bear my—”

Archer rests a hand on her shoulder, keeping her still. “This table’s ‘stuff’ is as stern as yours. Stay.”

“…Very well,” she says, shrugging off his hand.

“One more thing.” Lancer rises halfway from his chair. His shoulder brushes hers as he carries the bowl toward them. With a faint, dull _thunk_ it arrives within hand’s length _._

Some day, she’ll get used to this chivalry from one not sworn to her service. She smiles and dips her head in thanks.

Lancer sits back down, pleased with his success.

“…Now then.” Taking a long, slow breath, Saber holds out the peach slice between both men. “Lancer should taste it first.”

Soon enough, a rhythm forms: Archer and Lancer eat in turns, savoring the fruit as it comes. Fruit and time pass in equal measure.

Even with Archer and Lancer’s reassurance, something continues to nag at her. A familiar urge. It’s not quite embarrassment or shame, but something close. _It went well…I think. Why am I so dissatisfied?_

“Is something the matter?” Archer asks, having eaten his fill.

Lancer’s brows furrow. “You’ve held out your hand for a long while.”

“It’s nothing,” she says, as pins and needles now tingle up her arm. “I was merely lost in thought.”

“Do you mind if Archer and I continue our game?” He gestures toward the chessboard with a hand.

“Certainly.” Saber smiles. “If you don’t mind an audience.”

“Not at all,” Archer says, looking over the board confidently. “Lancer—I believe it was your turn last.”

In a reversal of norms, Lancer stays put, while Archer moves to the other side of the table.    

Absently finishing off the peach, she mulls over the day’s events. Archer’s seduction games, sharing kisses, the massages with him and Lancer…today went beyond her wildest dreams.

Perhaps that’s the problem: She didn’t satisfy her curiosity at all. It’s grown stronger.

Saber’s chest rises and falls in a drawn-out sigh. _And unlike with the massage, I have no further excuses. What to do?_ For a long while, she broods, twisting her clasped hands and staring at nothing. _Not that an excuse would help._

 _…Oh._  She straightens up, a smile blooming.  _Wait a moment._

“That’s it,” she murmurs. Raises her voice. “That’s it!”

Archer actually rears back in surprise; she wasn’t the only one lost in thought. “What now?”

Saber hops off the table. Words tumble out of her like autumn leaves in a gale. “As I am now, I need an ‘excuse’ to experience joy or pleasure. True, it’s foolish, but—”

“—Understandable,” Lancer says, toying with a bishop piece. “With Archer early on, I was in similar straits.”

“Hmm…” Archer looks out over the board, sizing up his options. He takes up a knight, grinning at them both. “An ‘excuse’, you say. Then we shall create one.”

Perhaps it really will be that simple. 


	5. Overheating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summer comes to the Throne of Heroes, and an "excuse" is discovered during belated spring cleaning. It's hard to work through self-doubt when you're too hot to think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for waiting! I had to redo this entire chapter, unfortunately. For lack of a better way to put it, I lost everyone's voice--no-one sounded like themselves. ;_; But hey, it's fixed now!

Often, the most difficult part of a task is the simplest: beginning it in the first place. This is especially true in summer. 

Saber groans low in her throat, heedless of her royal status. “Disgusting, all of it…!” Her sweat-drenched hair clings like sap to her face and neck. _This is my tenth attempt to get out of bed. I may as well be a wrung-out sponge._

Shards of pale, morning sunlight pierce through the thin window like an army's swords. Even in this normally cool chamber, heat rolls in like fog. Shutting the window does nothing to quell it. Specks of pollen drift about, glinting like gold dust. Her bed is drenched in acrid sweat. Outside, she can hear birds singing away without a care—as if they plan to mock the heat into submission.

With any luck, they will.

She drags a hand through her bangs, her fingers tangling in the wet clumps. _Still…I cannot lounge around here all day. I'll make one last attempt!_

Putting all her strength into it, Saber lurches to her feet—and this time, she keeps her footing. A small victory, but one she’s grateful for. Her bare feet leave damp tracks on the stone floor.

Now comes the next task: _As pleasant as it is, wearing my suit all the time is tiresome. Especially in this heat!_ She turns to her wardrobe. If she describes it well enough, the castle will know what to do.

“I need new clothes,” she says, memories of her squire days and shopping with Irisviel floating back to her. “Something like…”

After her explanation concludes, she opens the wardrobe curiously. _Did it work?_

What greets her is nostalgia as sweet as a summer breeze; and to her specifications, no less. Alongside it—well, she will leave those for a less overwhelming day.

Lancer’s voice floats in from outside; he must be near the wife’s quarters. An ominous _thud_ follows suit. The birdsong stops, drawing the tension taut.

In a flurry of movement, she’s dressed and ready, her heartbeat fluttering in her chest.

\---

“What happened?” Saber calls, as a gray plume of dust bursts from the wife’s quarters to greet her. It’s coming from a window in “rarely-used” chamber—that could mean anything.

A series of harsh, gargling coughs answer. Objects rustle and clatter. Then Lancer’s head pokes out through the window, a dust-smeared headband keeping his hair from his eyes.

“What did you say?” Lancer cups a hand to his ear.  

Taking a deep breath, she cups her hands over her mouth. “ _What happened?_ ”

“Belated spring cleaning!” It’s Archer who gives a full answer, strolling out the back door with a parasol. “Staying inside is preferable to enduring this miserable heat.”

He’s committed to fashion, if not sense: he’s wearing that double-layered robe today, complete with glittering finery. Even his armbands are sweating. His slicked-back hair looks ready to wilt like a flower.

“I dropped a tablet,” Lancer adds, closing the window, “but it isn’t broken!”

“Well done,” Archer calls over his shoulder. “Now draw the curtains before the heat seeps inside.” Then focus returns to Saber. “Come and join us. At the very least, you can cool off.”

Saber nods and follows him back inside. He’s right: her body goes loose-limbed in relief as she escapes the sun. With each step down the hall, her sluggishness disappears.

“You chose to forgo fashion today, I see,” Archer comments, assessing her over his shoulder. “Still, such plain attire has its appeal.”

“It may be plain to you,” she grumbles, “but not to me. There are fond memories attached to it.”

“Such as?” He seems curious now.

“Tending to horses, acting as my brother’s squire…those short, precious days of my youth.”

Archer’s howl of laughter makes his shadow on the wall shiver and stretch. “You sound like an old woman!” He pauses and laughs again. “And yet, you outlived your father. Quite a feat for a human!”

“Yes,” she murmurs, just now realizing it. A smile passes her lips. “From what I recall…he’d find that amusing as well. What of your father, Archer? Did you outlive him?”

He clasps his hands behind his back, pondering. “Hmm…no. He ruled for 1,200 years; myself a mere 126.”

Saber halts in her tracks, unable to comprehend it. “Impossible! Is…is that true?”

“Quite so. He was a god, you see—that simplifies things.” Then Archer’s shoulders shake with mirth. “But mongrels have translated _my_ exploits more thoroughly—so in a matter of speaking, I outlived him after all.”

“…I see. Did you know him well?”

Archer pauses, turning to face her fully. He lifts his chin, staring at her as if she’s a riddle to be solved. “Why do you wish to know? I know you mean no offense,” he adds before she can say it. “I’m simply curious.”

“As am I.” She clasps and unclasps her hands, unbalanced. “I saw my father only once—from a distance. I wondered if you had a similar relationship.”

“I can’t recall,” Archer replies, picking at invisible lint on his sleeve. “‘Children can never surpass their parents’. I learned that lesson well.”

Saber can’t help feeling a twinge of sadness at that. She lifts her chin and smiles. “That seems more like a challenge to me.”

Archer's eyebrows lift, impressed. “Good.” He rolls his shoulders and resumes walking. “Now then, let us move on from such dull thoughts!”

It’s too hot for courtship, alas. Perhaps later.

When they reach the “rarely-used” chamber, it takes Saber a moment to adjust. _Oh, dear. No wonder Archer asked for help!_

The lamps are lit, revealing the clutter in all its glory. It’s an ode to items: from horse tack to piles of mysterious bottles, the room is crammed with _things._ To someone like Saber, it’s nothing short of nauseating. 

“How did this happen?” she asks, as she picks her way past an army of bronze statuettes.

“Laziness,” Lancer replies matter-of-factly. His face is hidden behind the off-kilter stack of books he’s carrying. “This is what happens when Archer doesn’t bother putting treasures back.”

“ _And_ ,” Archer snaps, “what happens when the wine flows beyond a mongrel’s tolerance.”

The books spill over Lancer’s hands onto the table—threatening to knock over those bottles in the process. “What? That happened _once_ , as I recall.”

Archer holds out his arms, gesturing to encompass the mess surrounding them. “And behold the result!”

Saber knows a lover’s quarrel when she sees one. “If I may,” she speaks up, “while you two solve your problem, I’d like some way to assist. Preferably out of your way.”

Lancer nods, distracted. “Apologies, Saber. If you would sort these tomes into—genre, was it?—that would be of great help.”

“My pleasure.” Saber takes a seat at the table. “Are these all yours, Archer?”

“Most of them, yes.” Archer hefts a stone tablet to demonstrate. It vanishes into a portal with little fanfare. “Others come from the library—you’ll know by the capital ‘L’ on the back.”

“Ah, thank you. That simplifies things.” With that, Saber gets to work.

At first, she gives each book a quick glance before placing it with its brethren. The sciences go with sciences, legends with legends. There’s little of note…until she reaches the bottom. There, she makes an unexpected discovery.

 _…What is this?_ She stares at the paper-thin cover, showing fine-dressed lovers embracing on a windswept beach. They _must_ be lovers—why else would a man bare his rippling chest so? On one knee, his eyes gaze up imploringly at his lady. She stares down at him with a seductive smile, her shoulders and cleavage bared as if in challenge.

And Saber has no idea what to make of it.

_Oh, the plot is described on the back. It must be a tale. And yet…it isn’t an adventure? It must be some modern invention…_

Lancer strolls by, pushing a wooden wheel before him one-handed. “Ah, I see you changed your clothes.”

She turns in her chair to face him and smiles. “The heat would have been unbearable otherwise.” She glances down at her feet. “I must look…very plain,” she admits in a soft voice.

Lancer’s brows furrow in sympathy. “Not at all.” He rubs his chin, playing detective. “I see, now, how you could disguise yourself as a man for so long. Those baggy trousers hide the curves of your hips easily. And people would notice a sheathed blade at your belt, rather than your chest.”

“I admit, I miss such simplicity sometimes,” she says with a shrug.

Lancer nods, understanding. Then he changes the subject: “Archer and I came across a potential ‘excuse’ just now.” He glances toward the bottles. “An aphrodisiac.”

“A _what?_ ” Saber sways a little, bracing a hand on the table. “Isn’t that excessive?”

“You could say that.” Lancer smiles self-deprecatingly. “However, it would be slow-acting. Archer thought it best to ease into it.”

“…I see.” Saber takes stock of the rows of bottles—and the mysterious liquids floating inside them. They have a glint of importance about them now. “Yes, that could be useful. Who would test it first?”

“I would,” Lancer says, lifting his chin with pride. “As I’m the tallest of us, it would take time to take effect.”

Saber grins up at him, lacing her fingers on the desk. “And you wish to experience it for yourself.”

“Alas, you caught me.” Something catches Lancer’s eye. “Do you need aid, Saber? It must be dull, working alone.”

It dawns on Saber that the lover book is out in the open—and able to be spotted with ease. “…Not especially.” Her heart races in her chest.

Lancer’s eyes glint with mischief. “Have you found something interesting?” His shadow falls over the lover book—

—And Saber grabs a book on bird watching to block it from view. “No, thank you!” Her voice threatens to squeak. “I’m fine.”

Lancer tilts his head in polite confusion. “…I see,” he says at last, giving a courteous bow. “In that case, I’ll come when called.”

When he’s out of earshot, Saber sighs in relief. She returns the bird watching book to the science stack and peers at the lover book again. Its genre still confounds her.

Then she spies the front page _. Ah, a ‘romance’! I should have seen that earlier._ She puts it aside, out of sight.

Then things grow more confusing still: she finds books on sexual heath, women’s health (which includes the former), collections of lustful escapades, the occasional romance. Some have clinical covers, others lascivious. Instead of sorting them without a backward glance, she begins reading them first.

The number of ways to embrace is dizzying, almost beyond Saber’s comprehension. Whether it be with the mouth, the hands, the genitals, or “sex toys”, it’s clear that humanity excels at pursuing pleasure. Every other page Saber encounters something new. Sometimes with visuals attached. Said visuals are…especially forthright. 

The more she reads, the more her mind reels with fantasies. Being in public keeps her from acting on them. (Nudity is one thing. Masturbation is quite another.)

“Saber, have you finished with these?” Archer must be bored.

“Hm? Oh, yes”—she absently points to the side—“the ones stacked there are ready.”

“Excellent.” A flurry of gold motes passes Saber’s vision.

Saber makes a noncommittal grunt as she thumbs through another health tome. _Ah, so this diagram shows male and female anatomy._ She taps the area labeled “prostate” and frowns. _This part creates pleasure in men, but…why must it be_ here _?_ She shivers at the thought of injuring any of the delicate places surrounding it.  

“Has something frightened you, Saber?” Archer asks, a rare note of concern in his voice.

She shuts the book in a hurry. It belongs on the science stack. “—No.”

Archer surveys the table, searching for something. Then he chuckles, his earrings chiming in. “Your efforts have slowed considerably; how curious.”

“I apologize,” she growls, dragging a new leather-bound tome toward her. “I’m certain that I can finish before noon.”

“There’s no reason to rush,” Lancer says, passing by with an unused chess set. “Especially not in this weather.”

“True, but that isn’t what I meant.” Archer plucks an erotic novel from its stack with a flourish. “It appears she just finished this one.”

Saber lunges to her feet. No words come to her, leaving her glaring and adrift.

Archer raises his eyebrows and grins boyishly. “Hmm…‘a collection of “pegging” fantasies’. How fitting!”

Lancer wanders over to Archer’s side, peering over his shoulder. “Ah, _that’s_ the term. I couldn’t recall it yesterday.”

“You must have enjoyed these, Saber,” Archer says, flipping through the collection without a care. “Shall we guess which tale?”

Part of her wants to snap at him. Another knows a fine opportunity when it hears one. “You may,” she says, sitting back down and folding her arms over her chest. “You both need to rest. I can continue my work in the meantime.”

Archer blinks—as she hoped, he’s taken aback. But not for long. “Good. Very good!”

Lancer’s eyes flick across (what must be) the table of contents. “Hmm…not the first one, I suspect. The title alone feels too modern.”

“Right.” The tome she grabbed goes in the poetry stack.

“What of ‘His Queen Commands’?” Archer doesn’t bother hiding his confidence.

“…I don’t recognize that one.” Saber mulls it over then winces in realization. “Ah. That one involved Guinevere and Lancelot. I’d prefer not to read such things about my wife.”

Lancer’s grimace is audible. “That seems fair.”

Archer isn’t deterred for long. “‘The Lady’s Scepter’ sounds promising.”  

So the work passes, and the sweltering heat along with it. Saber keeps her more practical findings to herself. And yet, reluctance gnaws at her through the rest of the day.

\---

That evening in her chambers, Saber paces back and forth before the blazing hearth. _I should tell Lancer and Archer what I learned from those books. Miscommunication wouldn’t do. But…_

The night’s rain continues to spatter against the window. Some of what she learned—rather, what she found herself wanting—wouldn’t suit a king. They feel selfish. Weak. “Womanly”, as men of her time would say. _And yet…a king cannot be controlled all the time. Others see that as inhuman. Would Lancer and Archer think so?_

The bed bobs under Saber’s weight as she sits, still lost in thought. She wants both: to serve and be served, to be knight and king. _Or perhaps…‘to act’ and ‘be acted upon’ would be a better fit._

While the answer may be simple, it doesn’t feel that way. Kingship is hard to shake. 

She sighs and gets to her feet. “Dinner will be cold soon. Why did I bother dithering here?”

Shaking her head, she summons a blue cloak and leaves. No doubt she’ll be distracted from her worries soon enough.

\---

“… _Oh_ ,” Saber and Lancer breathe simultaneously.  

Saber blinks, trying and failing to take in this sight. At first glance, nothing seems amiss: Lancer is wearing a slightly stripped-down version of his armor, muscled arms bared. Then the color scheme catches her eye. It’s gone from teal and ink to ivory and sapphire. Somehow, the shift in color makes his attire hug his form tighter still.

“Good evening,” Lancer says, striding toward her from the table. The Great Hall’s candles halo him in gold. “Is the rain still warm?”

Saber hangs up her cloak and smiles. “It's beginning to stop at last.” She gestures to his attire. “We share colors tonight.”

“We do?” He looks down at himself, chuckling. “Well, well. White and black yet again. Though your tunic is more ‘cream’, according to Archer.” He follows this observation with a wry shrug. As if to say “ask him about it, not me”.

“Oh. Perhaps it is.” Saber looks around curiously. “I take it Archer will appear after dinner?”

“Ideally, yes.” Lancer looks to the heavens with good-natured exasperation. “Through mysterious means, he designed this outfit with some treasure of his. No doubt he’s doing the same for himself.”

“Why would he ‘design’ something for—oh.” Saber rolls up her sleeves absently. “Lancer, did Archer plan on embracing tonight? Perhaps I mistook his curiosity earlier.”

“No, you understood.” He gazes off to the side in thought. Looks back at her. “We should eat. After that…I have something to tell you.”

As they eat dinner (roasted chicken, steamed vegetables and oatcakes), it becomes clear that Lancer’s barely able to hold his tongue. Muscles jump in his jaw. His gaze will drop one moment and drink her in the next. He constantly fidgets, making the bench _creak_ under his shifting weight. Each breath is too measured. Beneath his new attire, his nipples are clearly rising to attention. It’s both fascinating and frustrating.

While they do manage to finish eating, it’s impossible for Saber not to overthink what could be wrong.

“Lancer,” she says softly, as he wobbles to his feet. “You _must_ tell me what’s the matter.”

After a moment of hesitation, he nods. “W-Well. You see—it’s about that aphrodisiac we discussed.” He rubs the back of his neck, using the table to shield his waist from view. “I took one not that long ago. And…I misjudged the timing. Apologies.”

Saber almost sighs with relief. _This_ is familiar territory.

“…Oh. I see.” She gestures toward his new attire. “Is that why Archer gave you this?”

“That’s right.” Lancer tugs the top’s hem up, revealing it to be a two-piece outfit. He lets go, and it falls back. “It’s made of silk; the texture pleases me.”

Saber hides her surprise—she expected cotton. Her gaze scrolls down his form, returning to his face. “Regarding that aphrodisiac. Did you and Archer test it beforehand?”

“Er…yes, I required some assistance earlier.” Lancer chuckles. “Archer was glad to provide.” Then he gazes at her without a trace of guile. “Why do you ask, Saber?”

“I wish to help,” she murmurs, a smile crossing her lips. “Do you require it?”

His answer is a wordless, yearning sigh.

That sweet sound propels her forward to his side. Within a few steps she stands before him, pulling him into an embrace. Warm silk tickles her cheek, carrying his unique scent.

Lancer tilts her chin up with a hand. “Saber, I…”

She knows what he wants. Their urgent lips join, claiming and caressing. Lancer’s body strains against her, struggling to hold back, even as he drinks from her mouth like it’s holy water. His trembling hands grip her shoulders as if they’re the only things holding him upright. Perhaps they are.

Lancer pulls up for air; his broad and powerful chest rises and falls above her head. “Wait,” he gasps. “Wait. We need…to sit.”

Saber nods, taking his hand. “Wherever you feel is best.”

He looks to the blazing hearth, and the plush carpet that sprawls out before it. “There should do.”

They make their way on unsteady legs, not even bothering to keep their hands off each other. Rather, Saber doesn’t. Lust-addled Lancer is too delighted to add much. Yet.

“We need something else,” Saber mutters. “Something softer to lie on.”

In due course, the castle summons a charming nest of silk pillows and fur blankets. Aside from the pillows, they’re not unlike what she and Guinevere slept on. _No. Don’t think such things._

Lancer practically melts to his knees atop the nest, taking Saber down with him. “Your generosity’s appreciated,” he says with a laugh. He gently presses her back onto the pillows, settling his heated body over hers. “Pardon me, King of Knights. You needn’t exert yourself on my account.”

Her stomach tightens uneasily. Conflicting desires roil and churn inside her, eager for gratification.

Saber lets out a not-very-regal snort. “If you wish to serve me…” Her hands reach out, giving him a gentle push onto his back. Then she crawls to him, slow and smiling. “…Which you’ve done so well until now…”

Lancer’s gaze doesn’t know where to settle as she straddles his waist on all fours. “Yes—I mean, thank you—?”

“Good.” She dips her head to whisper in his ear. “Then you will let me ‘exert myself’ and soothe the fire in your veins.”

He looks as tentative and eager as she dreamed. “Then, in that case…” He bares his smooth neck with a smile. “…Please, kiss me here as well.”

Saber does so, trailing her lips from his cheek to his shoulder. Her fingers tangle in his soft hair. “Like this?” she asks into the column of his neck.

The answer is obvious. Lancer’s chest rises and falls in quick bursts beneath her thighs; each breath sends tingling sparks along her skin. His hands clutch the furs, white-knuckled.

It’s at this point that Saber draws a blank. Put simply: there are too many options, and Lancer is too captivating.

“S-Saber,” he grits out, worry lines forming on his brows. “Move to my side, please.”

She looks down, realizing with a pang of embarrassment and surprise that she’s almost sitting on his solar plexus. Small wonder his breathing is so labored.

“My apologies!” She climbs off Lancer, keeping close watch as he sucks in air.

Once he can breathe properly, glinting desire returns to his eyes. “Thank you.”

Saber shifts into a sitting position at his side; once more she tries to plot her next move. _With Lancer’s gaze on me like this, it’s almost impossible. But…_ Her throat feels dry already. _…I don’t wish him to look away either._

“Such impudence,” Archer’s voice carries through the Great Hall. “You began without me. But I suppose that’s only fitting.”

Lancer’s head turns at that. Whatever he planned to say, it never comes. His eyes widen, and Saber can feel his pulse jolt.

Reluctantly she lifts her head to look at the source. And what she finds is…

…Well. He didn’t bother to change out of his robe after all. But was it always so _short_? The hem ends at the knees, ridged with delicate filigree to emphasize its abruptness. As Archer comes closer, the more convinced she is that the fabric is sheer. How it still manages to keep his privates out of view is beyond her.

Lancer speaks up, a slight quiver in his voice. “Is that…your new attire, Archer?”

“Not quite.” Archer’s earrings chime as he crouches down next to them. “I decided to wait a while longer before revealing them to you.” He smiles, fingers curling against his hip. “There are more… _delightful_ matters at hand.”

Saber hums in thought, running an idle hand through Lancer’s hair. “Indeed, and too many options.” The books flash before her eyes. “To change the subject…I read more than just tales.” She trains her eyes at a spot above Archer’s head. His hair is down tonight. “I—I learned how to enter a man.”

Archer laughs in delight. “Ah, how very useful. No doubt you noticed the similarities between the sexes as well.”

“Y-Yes, even if a man’s ‘entrance’ is…rather fragile.” She tries not to linger on the consequences.

“True, but that can be dealt with,” he says with confidence.

Lancer wets his lips nervously. “Archer. Do you…recall what we discussed earlier?” 

“Of course. This is a perfect opportunity.”

Saber looks between them, confused. “An ‘opportunity’ for what?”

“In a manner of speaking: to enter us, Lancer especially, requires…training.”

She draws in a shaking breath. “I—I believed you had already done so.”

Lancer shakes his head, smiling. “We made an attempt, but I was too nervous. I’m glad we waited.”

“It was trying to resist,” Archer admits with a sly smile of his own. “Still, we must remain patient. There’s little need to rush.”

“For _you_ , perhaps,” Lancer grumbles.

“Ah, you make a good point.” Archer dips his head down to Saber's. His sleek hair tickles her forehead. “Dear Saber…did anything else intrigue you?”

“N-No!” Her voice comes dangerously close to squeaking. She clears her dry throat. “Forgive me. That was not—appropriate.”

Archer stares off to the side, pondering. Which would be an innocent sight, if not for the sly smile he’s unable to repress. “Hmm…” The sound unrolls like a bolt of silk. “…I disagree.”

Sighing, she rubs her face with her hand. “Keep Lancer in mind. _He_ needs our aid right now.”

“That he does,” Archer says lasciviously. “However, teasing has a certain charm. Isn’t that so, Lancer?”

Lancer sucks in a breath, distracting Saber for a moment. Her eyes alight on his excited smile, as it grows ever wider. “Yes—both giving and receiving.” He tilts his head, as if to get a better view. “What of yourself, Saber?”

She folds her hands on her lap, straightens her back. “Perhaps I enjoy both, perhaps only one. I’m uncertain.”

Archer chuckles and settles beside Lancer. “Did you hear that?” he whispers. “Saber is overwhelmed as well.”

“Then we should treat him carefully.” Saber’s concerns flow out. “With the aphrodisiac in Lancer’s blood—it may push him further than usual!”

Surprisingly, this gives Archer pause.

Lancer flicks a glance over at Saber and nods in acknowledgement. “My thanks for your concern,” he says, quite composed. “Regarding the aphrodisiac…I enjoy this play without it as well. On my honor: if I feel pain, you’ll know.”

As before, his words are guileless. And there remains a sense of control in him that’s reassuring.

Saber presses a hand to her heart, sighs. “Thank you. Now I too can enjoy without fear.”

Lancer smiles hesitantly. “Then…” He glances between Saber and Archer as if afraid they’ll vanish into thin air at his next words. “…I’d like for you to, er, k-kiss my ears. Please.”

Saber blinks. “Your—your ears?” She does her best not to sound incredulous.

Archer grins, trailing a fingertip across the shell of Lancer’s ear. “I thought you were ticklish there?”

He squirms, chuckling uncontrollably. “When you do _that_ , yes!”

Saber pulls the topic back on track. “But kisses are acceptable?”

An eager nod. “I can show you, if you wish.”

It’s Saber’s turn to nod. Allowing Lancer’s lips at her ear, she tries to recall if any book mentioned this. _Let me see…yes, ears did come up as ‘erogenous zones’—_

A hot plume of breath ghosts against her ear, the side of her face. It dampens her skin, cooling in an instant. Put simply: she squeaks. _And the kiss hasn’t happened yet!_  Embarrassment squirms through her.

Archer licks his lips, a playful glint in his eyes.

“Don’t you _dare_ , Archer,” she growls, clapping a hand over her unprotected ear. 

“Apologies,” Lancer whispers, just before his lips nuzzle at the back of her earlobe. The wet tip of his tongue follows suit, flicking gently.

It’s pleasant, but she knows what she prefers. “I understand now. Thank you, Lancer.”

Lancer rests his head back on the pillows, grinning. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“On a count of three, then,” Archer murmurs, dipping his lips down to Lancer’s ear. “One…”

Saber dips her head down on the opposite side. Her target is already an endearing pink.

“…Two…”

Lancer’s arms coil with tension.

“…Three.”

At that signal, Saber presses a gentle kiss to Lancer’s ear. The salt of his skin tingles against her lips.

Lancer melts between them, sighing with each touch. They remain that way for a while, coaxing a beautiful melody from him. His pulse races and tickles against Saber’s tongue.  

“Th-that’s enough for now.” Lancer takes Saber’s hand in his, guiding it down to his chest. “…Here. I—I need your touch here.”

He really said that. It’s happening. Her breath catches.

“If I may opine, Lancer,” Archer purrs, lifting his head, “it would be best to have only one of us caress you at a time.”

His lips thin in a frown. “Why?”

“Because you still wish to serve us—and allowing us to witness your pleasure is itself a service.”

Lancer’s answering smile is full of determination. “If both of you believe I can—then I’ll do my best!”

“Excellent,” Archer says, looking to Saber. “You may act first.”

She blinks in surprise at his courtesy. “Th-Thank you. But I’d prefer to see your knowledge of Lancer in action.”

Lancer laughs quietly, but doesn’t object.

“Oho?” Archer puffs out his chest with pride. “Very well! Today, I shall act as your teacher.” He grins down at Lancer. “Shall I begin?”

Lancer nods, impatient.

Archer’s hands reach out, starting at Lancer’s ears. “First: curve your fingers down his flushed neck…and to his chest.” 

Lancer’s shudder vibrates against Saber’s leg, and she reacts in kind.

Archer’s self-satisfied grin is almost audible. “Ah, I thought that would delight you. Hmm…don’t fret, I’ll linger here for a time. Be still.” His fingers flow along Lancer’s pectorals, swirling across the silk landscape of onyx and pearl.

Lancer’s eyes follow the path of Archer’s fingers, unable to look away. Under their touch the swell of his chest rises and falls in short bursts, desperate to guide them. Beneath his flimsy armor, the firm tips of his nipples are unavoidable.

And yet, Archer passes them by. Sometimes they’re inches from the areola; more often they’re at the underside of his chest, framing the whole area for Saber’s benefit. Each time, his fingers skim just close enough.

Saber tries to speak. Nothing comes out. _If Lancer disliked this teasing, he would say so._

“A-Archer,” Lancer stammers; he lifts his head to Archer’s, his gaze already clouded with lust. “I beg you…at least kiss me!”

Saber’s skin prickles as a flush comes over it.

Archer’s gaze flicks to Saber’s, as if assessing her reaction. He grins. “Of course,” he purrs. “A knight deserves a token of affection.”

So saying, his lips brush Lancer’s, a kiss as light as down. His next kiss isn’t much stronger. The tip of his tongue playfully traces the curve of Lancer’s parting lips.

“However,” he says, still massaging Lancer’s chest with his hands. “As always, these taut nipples are aching to be touched. Isn’t that so?”

Lancer nods, swallows thickly.

Archer hums, mock-pondering. “Then what of the kiss you longed for?” This time, he takes advantage of Lancer’s open mouth and crushes their lips together like the world is ending.

Lancer pulls away. His hands tense, ready to grab Archer by the scruff and keep him in place. “What a”—he shudders again—“a poor jape, King of Heroes.”

Archer’s lips curl upwards in a smirk. “And yet, we both know you enjoy choosing.”

Lancer laughs under his breath. “Even so, I may not be able to hold back…”

Archer isn’t bothered in the slightest. “Interesting. Which shall it be?” Back and forth, with mouth and fingers, he demonstrates each choice. His movements are somehow both elegant and lewd.

Saber’s body throbs with need at the sight. And yet…she can’t bring herself to tend to it.

Archer lifts his head, grinning at her. “In the beginning, Lancer had no inkling he could feel pleasure here.” He thumbs Lancer’s nipples skillfully. “How did you put it, Lancer?”

“I-It was strange,” he manages. His eyes flutter shut, the lashes thick as ink.

“Ah, yes, thank you. Once he attempted it on his own—well, here we are.” Archer sighs in pleasure. “And with a gentle pinch, they turn harder still.”   

It’s as if he’s weaving a spell to release the wanton cravings of Fianna’s finest knight. A low, strangled whimper escapes Lancer’s throat, seeming to crystalize in the air. “Please, yes, touch them—!”

“‘Them’?” Their breaths mingle, kiss-swollen lips inches apart. “How vague. Where, mongrel? Tell us.”

In response, Lancer’s hands snap down to the hem of his top, yanking it up to his armpits. A thick sheen of sweat coats his torso and chest, the rosy, taut crests peeking just beyond the fabric. His breathing is labored, quick. The hard ridges of his abdomen dip and lift with each gasp.

“Enough!” Lancer’s voice turns ragged and sweet with desperation. His fingers find his nipples, rolling them mercilessly. “ _I’ll_ do it.”  

“An excellent choice.” Satisfied, Archer rests his hands on his lap.

“That aphrodisiac does its job well,” Saber whispers, enthralled.

Lancer stares up at her with wide eyes. “Y-Yes…” He groans as if straining under a great weight. “Archer as well. But Saber, you are…equally captivating.”

Saber clasps and unclasps her hands, suddenly shy. “I—I see. Thank you.”

His eyes scroll back to her, the whole of his body curving toward them. “Please, Saber—train me. I-I want…!”

“As do I,” she murmurs, unable to hide the ache in her voice.

Sighing in relief, Lancer spreads his thighs, exposing his tented leggings to them. 

Saber blinks in surprise. From what she can tell, there’s little difference between Merlin’s gift and Lancer’s erection. _Although…it seems Lancer’s changes less upon arousal._

“Open your thighs for us, mongrel,” Archer says, unmistakable lust in his voice. “Wider…very good.”

Saber leans forward curiously, the soft furs heating her palms. “Is it…?”

“Mm, there’s little Lancer loves more than being praised.” Archer crawls between Lancer’s legs, glancing over his shoulder at her. “Now slip in beside me, Saber—yes, that’s it—and we can begin.”

Lancer’s gaze flicks between them. “Er…both of you at once?”

“Of course.” Archer walks his fingers along the expanse of Lancer’s left boot, from the knee to the buckle. He laughs under his breath. “Did you see that small shiver, Saber? His skin hasn’t felt my fingers yet, but you would never guess from his reactions!”

Saber smiles and brushes Lancer’s cowlick from his eyes. “I look forward to seeing more.”

Lancer’s face defies expectations by growing redder still. “Y-You two…!”

“Oh, was that overdone? Very well.” Archer frames Lancer’s clothed arousal between his fingers, drawing Saber’s eye. “Now then. I shall lead.”

Poor Lancer is already panting. His thighs quiver and shake. “Your breath—”

“—Yes, like so.” Archer breathes a long slow exhale over his leggings, ending directly where the tip should be. “Your turn, Saber.”

Saber leans forward and follows suit, jerking back in surprise when Lancer’s hips jolt on contact. “Forgive me; was that too rough?”

“N-Not at all. You’re doing admirably, King of Knights.”

“To continue,” Archer interrupts them, before his lips follow the path of his breath. “After all,” he murmurs, hooking the waistband with a finger and tugging it down, “it wouldn’t do to leave a chivalrous knight unsatisfied, would it?”

“True,” Saber says, unsure of which of them Archer’s referring to. Perhaps he means both.

Lancer’s steel-hard sex twitches as it meets the air. It’s still slick with silvery pre-ejaculate. The carnal scent of Lancer’s arousal flows to Saber’s nose, stunning her senses. _Ah…so this is Lancer’s…_

“Hmm, this may not be enough,” Archer murmurs, as a ribbon of silver trickles down Lancer’s shaft. “Oil would be preferable.” So saying, he summons a familiar silver bowl and inclines a hand toward Saber.

“I have only those books to go on,” she warns, dipping her fingers into the fragrant oil. It’s unusually thick yet clear as water. “Still, I’ll do my best.”

“Your hands are more than suitable for this task,” Archer assures her. “Small and gentle.”

“Th-this might help.” Lancer’s hand reaches down and tears the crotch of his leggings asunder. The sound is almost obscene.

Saber gasps. “Lancer, you—!”

“It’s fine,” he insists. His fingers pull a creamy-pink cheek taut, exposing everything to their eyes. “This way…you can reach it easily.”

Archer laughs in good humor. “How unexpected!” His fingertips gift Lancer’s quivering thigh with a soft stroke. “To think he would mar his new attire this way…this eagerness becomes you.”

Saber holds up her oil-drenched fingers, framing Lancer’s face between their gaps. “We can start whenever you’re comfortable.”

Lancer’s throat bobs as he gulps. “—Yes. I’m ready.”

She nods in assent. Her heart pounding in her chest, her fingers travel down his taut inner thigh to their destination. “Hopefully I can recall everything.”

“I have faith,” Lancer says with a grin. His patience is admirable.

“As do I. And while you’re occupied there, Saber…” Archer’s fingers curl around Lancer’s erection, holding it with care. “…I shall toy with him here.”

Her fingers still, inches from their destination. “I know that technique as well. Don’t dismiss me so easily, King of Heroes.”

“Humph. If you say so.” Archer kisses the tip, closing his eyes in bliss. 

 _I should return to my own task._ Saber’s fingers delve between the cleft of Lancer’s cheeks, caressing gently. She keeps a careful eye on his reactions: the way his body tenses and relaxes, how his lips tremble, his pupils dark and wide with lust. Once his backside rises up to meet her hand, she knows he’s ready.

“Time for a direct touch,” she murmurs, and does so. His opening feels different against her swirling fingertip; there isn’t a natural wetness like a woman’s sex. It’s…far more delicate, and thus more intimidating.

Whimpers spill from Lancer’s lips like water from a pitcher. “Archer, please, go slower…I need to last…!”

“I know.” Archer’s swollen lips curve into a smile. “How is it, mongrel? Saber’s finger, that is.”

Lancer’s foot rubs against her side, as if seeking purchase. “Gentle…wet…”

Saber starts as a new sucking sensation hits her fingertip. “I-It means to take me in—?!”

“Excellent.” Archer’s fingers stroke Lancer with expert care. “Do you wish it as well, mongrel?”

“A bit,” he breathes, “only your tip.”

Dizziness hits Saber again, but she endures. As slow as she can manage, she dips the pad of her finger inside. “There. It’s—ah!” Tight, melting heat clenches around it, pulling and pushing against her like an undertow.

Lancer throws a forearm over his eyes, as if ashamed. “Gods…!”

His erection pulses in Archer’s skillful hands. Beads of sweat flow down his inner thighs, giving his skin a glistening sheen. Tremors quake through his body, drawing him taut—followed by his muscles going pliant. He climaxed: that much is clear from the ribbons of white decorating his rippling belly. And yet, his sex remains firm as before. Hurried on by the aphrodisiac, he’s starving for more.

“Oh, mongrel,” Archer says with a melting voice, “you took Saber in _wonderfully_.” He cleans Lancer’s belly with unhurried licks of his tongue. “This bodes well for the future.”

Lancer lifts his arm, gazing at Saber with wide worried eyes. “Apologies, Saber—are you hurt?”

She shakes her head. “You need to relax, for both our sakes.”

“Taste him with me,” Archer coaxes, and Lancer’s sex swells in response. “That may help. And keep your hand as it is.”  

Saber wets her lips. “Yes, I shall.”

Together, she and Archer pleasure Lancer thoroughly. Holding his gaze, kissing and lathering his firm flesh from tip to base, praising him—it all serves to make him melt.

“This wetness…you’re doing well, Lancer. Do you like it here?” She swallows around the head, reveling in the velvety feel of him against her tongue.

“Y-Yes…”

She’s growing dizzy. Even without touching herself, it feels as if her body is about to overflow with pleasure. Her thighs flex in a desperate bid for friction. _No—I mustn’t. This is for Lancer alone._

Archer’s voice floats through her head as if from far away. “…Saber, let me join you. Mm…” A suckling, sticky sound. “Behold, Lancer: you’ve awakened her avarice. Well…not _only_ hers.”

In the back of her head, her mind is in awe of what’s happening. _I’ve joined forces with the King of Heroes to caress Lancer. My finger has entered a man. And Lancer—Lancer can’t get enough. Was this part of his fantasy as well? Is it mine? Am I dreaming?_

Archer’s tongue brushes against hers as together they swirl around the leaking tip. Salty liquid drenches her mouth, and she swallows it greedily. _No, this is real. Somehow._

Lancer is beyond words now. All he can do is pant and pump his wanton hips to meet the joined heat of their mouths. His trembling fingers reach out and stroke her hair once, coaxing her further into a lustful void.

“Saber,” Archer coaxes, his hands still gliding along Lancer’s shaft, “let me taste your tongue as well.”

She raises her head. “Like this…?” Suddenly shy, she angles her mouth toward Archer’s for an open kiss.

Archer hums in approval. “Look well, Lancer.” With that, he slides their lips together. 

Pleasant shock thrills down Saber’s neck. The bittersweet tastes of both Lancer and Archer flood her mouth. From her lips to her finger, she’s submerged in slick, firm warmth.

Lancer whimpers again; his opening clamps down on her finger as if claiming it.

Archer runs the tip of his tongue over her tingling lips. Pulls back. “Now, where were we? Ah, yes.” He returns to tormenting Lancer as if they never stopped.

“It’s growing bigger,” she says softly, her cheek nuzzling Archer’s. She bathes him with her tongue, heedless of her saliva. “Would you prefer a firmer touch?”

Lancer nods, his lips parting in pleasure. The stiff crests of his nipples are marble-hard between his fingers.

Archer’s mouth pops free with an obscene wet sound. “Perhaps gently stroking inside him will help.” He crooks a soaked finger to demonstrate.

She does so, her heart pounding in her chest. The tight ring of flesh quivers and tenses as if unsure what to do. “Breathe, Lancer.” She keeps her voice soft and calm. “If it pains you, I shall stop.”

“No,” he manages, his thighs glistening. “No. Let me…take it…”

Archer moans low in his throat. “You’re close, aren’t you, mongrel?”

Lancer stares down at them both, eyes glazed over with lust. Sweat-dampened hair plasters to his forehead and neck. What began as drawn out pants is now shorter. Faster. His thrusts follow suit. Inside him, his convulsing embrace wraps about her fingertip, sliding it in a little deeper.

“Yes, just like that.” Archer must be close as well; rhythmic stroking sounds can be heard between his legs. “Which would you prefer? Outside or inside? Saber or myself?”

Lancer manages to speak. “You— _outside_ —”

 _—Oh gods._ Saber’s skin is slick again.

Archer nuzzles his cheek against Lancer’s throbbing shaft. “How daring. I shall allow it.”

An order floats through Saber’s mind. Without hesitation she gives it voice: “Spend yourself, Lancer. For us.”

He pulses in their gentle hands, around her tingling finger. Then he jerks forward—and releases with a wordless cry, his overcome expression more beautiful than in her fantasy. His seed spills onto Archer’s cheek and lips, ivory on bronze. With a final shudder, he sinks back onto the furs, spent.               

Saber’s finger leaves his opening as gently as it entered. Even so, a visible twitch lances through him at that sensation. _And yet, there are no signs of pain. He must be fine…_

“Well done,” Archer purrs. A hand rises from between his legs, clearly damp. Undeterred, he wipes off the mess on his face and smiles at them both like a lion after a meal.

“How did it feel, Lancer?” Saber asks, once his breathing evens out.

Lancer opens one eye and grins. “Strange, yet pleasant.”

“As you expected.” Archer summons a full washbasin and cloths for everyone. “What of you, Saber?”

“…It went well.” After cleaning herself off, she lies down on her belly, her chin pillowed on her arms. “Lancer’s entrance  _was_ far from my usual expertise. And yet…”

Lancer raises an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“…It felt very pleasant, regardless.” She grins at them both. “Seeing your lustful faces was quite a way to end the day.”

Lancer lifts his chin proudly. “It was my pleasure.”

Archer chuckles; he looks ready to fall asleep at any moment. “May we discover another ‘excuse’ tomorrow. Or perhaps someone else will use this one.” He yawns and slips down onto his back. “Regardless: I, for one, have no wish to move after this. Good night.”

Lancer nods in agreement, having not bothered to sit up in the first place. “You can sleep here as well, Saber.”

It’s an intimate proposition without hidden meanings. That’s clear from his face. And yet, Saber can’t help but feel a prickle of embarrassment.

“…If you insist. However, I’ll stay at a distance.” She nods to the expanse of furs and silk pillows that surround them. “There is more than enough room for us.”

“That may be so,” Archer says, his voice blurred with sleep. “And yet, you needn’t stand on ceremony with us either.”

“Yes, I remember.” Now it’s her turn to yawn. Pleasant soreness runs through her jaw and hands, and before she knows it her eyes begin to close.

As she falls into slumber, her previous worry comes back again. _Perhaps I should take that aphrodisiac. It could ease my mind._ She bites her lip at the thought.  _And yet…it may weaken me instead. Who can say?_

The tension bothers her more than she’d dare admit. She lies somewhere between sleep and wakefulness for a long time, listening to the soft breathing of her companions. Then—once she’s certain they’re asleep—she gets to her feet.

The pinprick lights of the stars find their way through the windows, their glow too faint to cast shadows. Only the fading hearth-fire gives any illumination. Silence smothers everything. Saber stands in the Great Hall and wonders: _What is this healing land like at night? I never bothered to look._

With conflicting thoughts clashing through her head, she decides to take a chance and investigate. _If nothing else, I’ll have a tale to tell at breakfast._


	6. Visions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Restless in more ways than one, Saber cools her head away from the castle grounds. Fortunately, an old friend has need of her knightly services.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Monty Python narrator voice* ...And now for something completely different: world-building.
> 
> Well, perhaps not _completely_ different; I did my best to ensure this chapter doesn't feel too out-of-place with the others (before and after). It just happened that the original draft would've been 9k words, and so I opted to split it. Next chapter will be sexier, no worries! XD

“Saber…?” Lancer whispers, his voice blurred with sleep. “Where are you off to?”

At the table, Saber pauses, almost finished with the note she’s writing. Sweat slicks the quill in her hand. She knows that if she looks at him now, still in the milk-white outfit he ruined for their pleasure…leaving will be difficult.

 _No. I can endure it._ She crosses a final “t” before setting the quill down and fully turning her attention toward Lancer.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she whispers back, “so I decided to explore the outdoors.”

Lancer sits up, his arm draped over his raised knee. In the moonlight, he’s bathed in silver. A smile tinged with nostalgia graces his lips. “Ah, so you finally felt that call.”

She doesn’t like the sound of that. “What ‘call’?”

“Don’t worry, it’s not like the Grail.” Lancer shrugs. “You could say this is part of our healing process.”

“I thought we were meant to stay here.”

“…Yes and no. This place of healing doesn’t _just_ consist of this castle. Eventually, each Heroic Spirit needs adventure—even a small quest—to keep their bodies and minds honed. The Throne knows this.”

“Can we be injured?” Saber can’t keep the curiosity from her voice.

Lancer’s brow pinches in discomfort before smoothing out. “Would that enhance the quest for you?”

“…A bit.”

Lancer nods, a slight bitterness to his smile. “Then that is what you’ll get: ‘a bit’ of an injury. However, I hope you’ll return in good health.”

Archer grunts and lifts his head. His hair is tangled and askew, like a fairies’ nest. “Who is injured?” he grumbles sleepily. His eyes have a striking glow in this light, rather like a cat’s in the dark.

“No one,” Lancer assures him, patting his shoulder with a gentle hand. “You should rest.”

“Saber must as well,” Archer argues; even in this state he manages a sultry smile. “You worked and played tirelessly today…shouldn’t your efforts be rewarded?” He holds out a welcoming hand; his sheer robe slips down his tanned shoulder.  “Come here, where it’s warm.”

“This is my reward,” Saber insists, even as Archer yawns invitingly. “It’s not as though I’m about to travel the world.”

“Wouldn’t daylight be better?” Lancer flicks a glance outside. His marble-like shoulders hunch, as if to ward off howling winds. “It looks quite cold out there.”

Saber shrugs. “That may be so; I daresay it will add rather than detract to the experience.”  

“The night is young,” Archer murmurs. “You can think it over for a moment longer, isn’t that so?”

“Just for awhile,” Lancer says, softening the request further.

Her resolve threatens to melt. Both men look so comfortable and concerned as the hearth-fire slowly dies behind them. Their words are clearly genuine. _I could lie here for a moment, surrounded by their warmth._

And yet, this illustrates the _other_ reason she needs to take a momentary leave.

Saber clears her throat and turns away, hoping her flushed ears aren’t visible. “I shall rest with you when I return,” she says.

There’s a sigh of disappointment from Archer, but Lancer sounds more at peace with her decision.

“One last thing, then,” Archer says. “A word of warning.”

It’s Lancer who speaks. “Ah, yes, that.” 

“Yes?” Saber asks, turning back to face them.

“…How to put it…” Lancer rubs his eyes as if chasing away a dream. “You may encounter visions from another time and place. Images of yourself—warped reflections.”

“And what do I do with these…reflections?” Saber asks, unable to keep the skepticism from her voice.

Archer’s expression turns serious. “Do your best to understand them.” 

Saber knows to take their words seriously. “Then I shall.” She strides for the door. “May you both have pleasant dreams.”

They see her off with half-asleep waves.

\---

Saber follows the full moon’s light as if it were a lantern. From the trees’ leaves above her head to the grass at her feet, the inner courtyard seems dipped in molten pearl. Crickets chirp plaintively, searching for mates. Sweat dampens the back of her neck, not cooled in the slightest by the night air. Summer is truly here.

 _Ah…that’s right, the drawbridge is shut._ Saber glances over her shoulder, checking if Archer and Lancer are still awake. Reassuring silence answers her.

As silent as wet silk on marble, she jumps over the castle wall, landing on the opposite side of the moat.

Her sudden appearance causes a stir. Near her foot, a frog scrambles back into the moat, croaking fretfully. Off-kilter ripples follow after it.

“Excuse me,” she says on instinct.

The frogs say nothing in response.

 _…Well, I expected nothing less._ Moonlight spills into the water like milk, too bright to show her reflection. _I should go, if I wish to return by sunrise._

Closed blossoms wet with dew tickle at her ankles as she walks. The outer courtyard is empty of any grazing animals—save for the occasional bat flying overhead. They snatch up bugs in midair, chirping gleefully at their catch. Enlarged by the moon, their winged shadows remind her of Vortigern’s.

A cold north wind gusts over the nearby hills. As it sinks its icy claws into her skin, Saber hunches over and hugs her arms about herself to keep the heat of her body close.  

Drowsy voices bubble up from the depths of her mind:

__“It looks quite cold out there.”_ _

_“Come here, where it’s warm.”_

A shiver tickles at her skin; the phantom touch of others’ flesh lingers.

Even the world around her can’t keep her mind from a recurring path. The taste and scent of Lancer and Archer still cloud her senses. In her mind’s eye, she can see Lancer’s body coming undone at her words, at their touch.

_“Open your thighs for us, mongrel. Wider…very good.”_

_“Please, Saber—train me. I-I want…!”_

And though she wished to be courteous and held back her own pleasure…her body still aches. Terribly. Beneath her clothes, her skin is hot as forged steel. Caressed by each tiny thread of cotton, her hardening nipples rub insistently against her tunic. And between her legs…

 _“…Oh, mongrel, you took Saber in_ wonderfully _. How does it feel?”_

 _“Gentle…wet…”_   

…Well. There’s more than one reason why she wandered off on her own.

Saber has no idea where she’s headed: her feet move of their own accord. With each step her mind seems to still. The thoughts that buzzed like a hornet’s nest fade away, leaving a strange numbness behind. _Yes. Now I know what I must do._

Then—unexpectedly—she stops. She stands before a weeping willow, its long vines trailing into the river beside it. The river churns and bubbles, traveling at its own pace. _I can rest here._ She pushes the vines aside and passes through, shivering as their wet leaves tickle her neck and shoulders. 

The trunk of this willow is massive; it could easily hold a person. Dark roots snake under and through the earth around her. Saber’s vision is overcome with earthy brown and lush emerald. The air tastes sweet and clear.  _Yes, this is perfect—_

Saber sits and rests her back against the trunk, not minding how the bark digs into her clothes and skin. The grass at the willow's base is surprisingly dry and soft. Moonlight flickers through the willow’s canopy. 

With no one else around, she lets her thoughts drift as they will, knowing precisely where they’re headed. While under normal circumstances Saber might take her time, there’s little chance of that tonight. Her clothes are more like a cage. And in this state, she’ll never appreciate an adventure to the fullest. She must tend to her needs on her own.

Hiking up her tunic and taking the bitter-tasting cotton hem between her teeth, she begins to touch herself.

Her breasts spill free, pale and creamy in the moon’s light. They swell as if rising up to meet her hands, their taut nipples nudging the tips of her fingers. _How did Lancer caress his?_ She starts with light circles, shivering at the hot ache that follows.

Leaving one hand at her chest, she moves the other down to her trousers…then beneath them.

 _Oh, gods._ A chill of embarrassment and something incomprehensible crawls up her neck, across her face. _My underwear…it’s drenched…_ Not only that: the little bud of nerves that crowns her sex is as hard and throbbing as Lancer’s erection, poking insistently against the soaked cotton. _Did I ingest the aphrodisiac through Lancer…?_

Her fingertips slide against the tingling tip, sending a sudden pulse of pleasure through her blood. Wet sounds not unlike Archer and Lancer’s kisses lick at her ears.

She can almost hear Archer now: _“Poor Saber…you’re in quite a state. Why, you could put an uncut jewel to shame!”_

Perhaps, if he were in a daring mood, Lancer might add with a reassuring smile _“We should take care of it.”_

 _…And I would accept that offer._ Saber moans behind her makeshift gag, her fingers doing their best to mimic their touch. As impossible as it seems, she can practically feel their lips at her ears, their shallow breaths tickling her skin.

 _How would they wish to be bedded?_ That’s a question she has yet to find an answer for. She only has her own experiences to go on.

At least those are easy to picture: _Lancer, on his back wrapping his ankles about her waist—Archer on all fours, rocking back onto her—_

The pace of Saber’s fingers quicken, her heart beating a furious rhythm in her chest. _Wait—!_

An orgasm thrums through her skin, there and gone in a tingling burst.  

It’s so unexpected that her mind barely registers it. She lets out a shaking breath, slumping forward. _Is that…all…?_

No, it isn’t. Her body can’t accept such a hasty conclusion, just as her mind cannot. Resting her hand for a moment, she lets the fantasy continue.

 _“I know you can move faster than_ this _,” Archer taunts, reaching behind to press his palm into her rolling hip._

_“Do you need a physical demonstration?” Lancer’s gentle smile tempers his words. “As always, we’ll be gentle.”_

_“Yes,” she admits, the thrilling taboo of it shattering her inhibitions._

_And besides—Lancer just took her finger inside him, and the world didn’t end. In a fantasy like this, it should be no different for her._

In reality, her fingers tentatively creep down to her slick and eager entrance. The whole area trembles, yearning to be filled. Hot fluid drips onto the pads of her fingers, sending an excited shiver down her back.

_Lancer sighs, his cheeks flushed red with excitement. Sweat glistens on his chest, dripping down to her belly. “Saber—ah—you’re taking me in—”_

With a brief, strange stretching sensation, Saber’s finger slips inside. Immediately, the wet heat of her inner walls surrounds it, holding fast. _Oh—yes, now I remember: they have a soft, ribbed sort of texture._ A jolt of electricity dashes through her waist. _It’s…like spreading open Guinevere’s and Morgan’s, but_ I’m _the one feeling it._ She pauses, growing used to the sensations. _Perhaps, if I rub the tip of my sex with the heel of my hand…_

At that light caress, her body quickens. Pleasure flows through her waist, her sex, slicking her finger and easing the way.

_“That’s it, Saber,” Archer croons, now looking on with her as Lancer eases inside. “Welcome Lancer in.” He rolls her nipple between his fingers until it aches._

_Lancer shivers, his eyes wide with surprise. “I-It doesn’t hurt?”_

_“You’re being very gentle,” Saber says softly, cupping his cheek with a hand. “…Both of you. Thank you.”_

A delicate breeze whispers by, cooling the sweat that beads on her thighs. Her toes curl in her shoes, grasping for purchase. Slowly her body finds a rhythm. Her scorching inner walls throb around her finger as it massages them wonderingly.

_“I can feel your heart racing,” Archer murmurs, as Lancer begins to move. “It’s exquisite, isn’t it? You can feel his every quiver as you envelop him…” With a sigh, Archer dips his head to claim her mouth with his._

_Lancer’s free hand reaches down to caress where they’re joined, electrifying Saber’s mind. “Saber…if you hold my hand so tightly, it’ll break like glass.” He gives her a look that could melt a dragon’s heart. “It’s endearing.”_

Saber’s pleasure falters, overcome with baffled embarrassment at such sentimental words. _Over hand-holding, of all things!_ Clearly she needs to change this scenario _at once._ Or else she’ll torment herself with sweet nothings neither man would ever say.

 _…Alternatively._ Sucking in a breath, Saber dares to slip a second finger inside. The “stretch” isn’t as rough this time. Her walls undulate wildly in time with her pounding heart. _Both Lancer and Archer—together—_

It’s surely impossible. Such a thing never crossed her mind until reading of it yesterday.  _Each of them could take turns, two inside of one, in whatever combination they like. She can almost smell their delicious scents on either side of her. Their sweat-slick flesh sears against hers._

The heel of her hand glides against her; faster, faster. Nothing else exists. Just the rising flames of pleasure turning her mind to ashes.  

_Lancer’s muscular thighs rock into Saber’s slow thrusts, while his swollen lips are claimed by Archer’s firm arousal—_

—And she careens to her limit. Pleasure cascades through her body; her thighs grow taut and rear up, greedily drinking in each electric pulse that explodes through her veins. White light overwhelms her vision. Like morning fog, the tension inside her evaporates to nothing. Her tunic falls from her lips, wetting her already drenched belly.   

Before she can regain her bearings, weariness surrounds her like a warm blanket. Even though she knows she should keep watch, everything about this place radiates peace. _A few minutes…should be acceptable…_

Her eyes droop shut, seconding the motion.

\---

Saber wakes, a crick throbbing in her neck. The moon is higher in the sky—it must be near midnight. Aside from her neck and the cold air, she’s unharmed. (She’s used to being exposed to the elements.) _Lancer will be pleased._

She yawns (her neck muscles creak) and stands, rolling her neck from side to side. Her thighs brush, and a faint ache blooms between her legs. Then she remembers: _I should wash my hand. Or did I do so earlier?_

Tentatively, she sniffs her fingers. A faint, salty fragrance hits her senses like a blow. _I didn’t…!_ The knowledge has a delicious decadence to it.

Once her head clears, she cleans her hands in the cool river. It feels less… _crude_ that way.

 _Well, I managed to rest a bit._ Saber pats her hands dry on her tunic. _Now I need to move forward._

Just then the sound of hooves rings out. It’s a melody as delicate as little bells, providing sweet accompaniment to the river’s tune.

 _Who could it be?_ Saber peers between the willows green curtain, not daring to step out quite yet. What she sees makes her stare in confusion.

The chestnut-brown horse has no rider, yet is saddled and carrying his tack in a familiar leather pouch. The reins are held loosely in his mouth. A beautiful tail as black as ink sways in the breeze like a banner. Wherever he came from, he left in good spirits.

Those gentle brown eyes and proud toss of his head only belong to one horse: Eto.  

Then he reaches the willow tree. He stops, chewing nervously on the reins. His tail flicks about with nerves. Huge nostrils flaring, his ears flick about. Saber’s scent must have carried downwind, and he’s reacting to its familiarity.

Saber speaks to the air, unsure if there’s a way to ask the Throne of Heroes. “Is…is he here for me? May I ride him?”

Eto doesn’t vanish. The Throne of Heroes wouldn’t have a reason to lie. _And I need some method to return by dawn…this is how._

Heart pounding, Saber brushes the willow branches aside and moves toward him.

Eto turns his head to stare at Saber, his ears perked. He huffs softly—perhaps a “who’s there?” His eyes show a hint of white. (She isn’t quite in his line of vision; that’s unsettling him.)

“It’s alright, Eto,” Saber whispers, giving him a wide berth until she comes to a stop before him. The fragrances of leather and horse send sweet nostalgia welling through her heart.

After a moment’s pause—this still feels like a dream—her fingers reach out and stroke his nose.

Eto’s nostrils flare. The expelled air tickles her fingertips.

A moment passes, cold with tension.

Then his muzzle relaxes, and he rubs his velvety head against her palm as if they never parted.

“Oh…” Saber’s eyes prickle with heat; her vision blurs. Her heart has to strain to hold in this happiness. “…I missed you too, my friend.”

Eto stands still as she lightly wraps her arms about his neck. He sniffs again, confirming her scent. She must pass muster: he doesn’t bite or lash out. The coarse, thick strands of his mane brush her hands. It’s as it should be—rather, as it was.

“Even if it’s only for tonight,” she murmurs, “I’m glad to travel with you again.”

He whickers against her shoulder, content.

They rest together for a time. He munches on grass while she brushes his mane. The river babbles on, heedless of their reunion. 

However, night cannot last forever. _I should explore now, while I have the chance._

Saber climbs onto Eto’s saddle with a grunt. Her legs take some adjusting to slip into the stirrups; Eto was meant to be Kay’s steed. She was only his caretaker.  

After driving cars in the modern world, riding a horse feels both comforting and odd—to start with, cars’ lungs didn’t expand and contract like giant billows against her legs. Nor could she feel their muscles shift beneath her, adjusting to her weight.

“Yah!” She snaps the reins, and Eto ambles down the dirt road, a slight dance in his step.

“I’ll let you lead me, Eto,” she says, her body bobbing about in his saddle, “You clearly know your way around.”

Eto huffs as if amused.

“Yes, yes,” she says with a laugh. “You finally get a say in things.”

\---

They travel in silence. Following the stream, they pass rolling hills coated in silver moonlight, thick tangles of dark bracken, dazzling opal carpets of night-blooming flowers.

Now and then buildings dot the landscape. They’re always visible, but out of reach. Some look like castles from her era; others are more like colorful confections. Still others are simple cottages of wood or stone. Whenever Saber glances back to get a better look, the buildings melt away like snow.

“So there  _are_ other Heroic Spirits here,” Saber says aloud, as a cream-and-gold palace’s lights snuff out. “How have we never seen them? Do they need privacy?”

Eto, being a horse, has no answer to that. Then his ears twitch, and he prances about nervously.

Saber faces forward, curious. Then she understands: they’re nearing the forest that was previously so far away.

At first, Saber doesn’t see what’s so exciting. The night-drenched trees loom overhead, taller than any she’s ever seen. It’s as if they’re standing guard.

Then, as she nudges Eto forward, the trees accept them inside. Their coarse, icy branches scratch at Saber’s skin and clothes like worshippers clutching at the hem of a holy man’s robe.

“Easy, easy,” she soothes, stroking Eto’s huge neck.

He calms beneath her touch; his pace and breathing evens out.

A chill night wind whispers through the trees. With the branches blocking the moon, it’s impossible to see. Eto’s hooves tramp down on old leaves and packed earth. Animals scurry past or around them, disturbing the undergrowth. Pale lights—eyes?—flash in the dark.

All the while, Eto follows a path invisible to Saber’s eyes. Now that he knows where he’s going there’s no nervousness in him.

Unexpectedly, the world sways. If Saber could see, her vision would be swimming. _Ugh…!_ Her head feels light and woozy. _What’s…happening…?_

Somehow Eto traveled upwards without Saber realizing. They crest a fog-drenched hill and make their way down and down. With each step, a new sensation fills the air. Hot and cold wind gusts against her skin.

In a blink, Saber’s vision clears.

Before them lie a small pond—and more prominently, a cave. It’s been gouged from the earth, as if dug by massive claws: rubble still crowds around the entrance like uninvited guests. Inside its depths, a faint red light pulses like a giant heart. 

Curious though Saber is, she wants a second opinion. “Do you want to go in, Eto?”

Eto’s ears flick nervously. His tail swats at nothing. And yet, he seems willing to enter; he trots forward without her urging.

The cave’s interior is as dry as bleached bones. Where there should be water, there’s only humidity. The very stones beneath Eto’s hooves are brittle; they crumble to dust with each step. _What happened here?_

It doesn’t take long to find out.

Burning breaths scorch the air. A low rumble like an earthquake makes Eto rear his head; his nervous neigh echoes madly in this cramped place.

Another rumble, fiercer than before, lashes through the stagnant air in answer.

Saber tugs at the reins, drawing Eto back a few paces. “A dragon,” she whispers. “Of course!” Her voice is swallowed up by the phantasmal beast’s breath.

Eto tosses his head proudly, pleased with either himself or Saber.

The dragon is far too large for this cave. And yet, here it is, holed up in a trap of its own making. Who knows how long it’s lain here, crumpled like a broken toy? Pained rasps issue from still-mighty jaws. Its blood red scales have lost their luster, and its once proud wings are frail from lack of use. The tip of its tail lifts in limp acknowledgement. One eye has been scarred over with a mass of purple.

And yet…a gold eye bright as Excalibur glares at Saber, daring her to move.

Something familiar draws her close. At the same time, discomfort scratches at the back of Saber’s neck; this feels _wrong_ , like staring at a reflection with details out of place.

She slides off Eto’s saddle, resting her hand at his shoulder. “It seems I’m meant to be here,” she says in as soothing a tone as she can manage. “May I help you?”

The dragon lifts its massive head, nostrils flaring as it sniffs the air. It’s then that Saber spots it: the cruel glint of a sword’s ruby-tipped pommel. Only the hilt can be seen—the blade is buried inches from the dragon’s heart. _For it to stay lodged like that—it must be a mighty weapon._

“Please,” she whispers, inching toward the dragon. “If that sword isn’t removed, you will continue to suffer.”

The dragon’s claws flex, sending pebbles raining down on Saber’s head. A low, wavering groan leaves its throat. The slightest movement must be agonizing.

If she comes any closer, she will only cause it more pain.

How strange. In life, she would consider this dragon another foe to be slaughtered for her people’s protection. Yet as she stares at it, all she can see is its beauty and agony. A yearning opens up inside her: a simple desire to ease another’s burden.

She looks to Eto, still standing steadfast with his whites showing stark in his eyes. “Can you find this place again?”

He whisks his tail in acknowledgement.

“Good.” She looks back at the dragon and smiles determinedly. “Then I will return soon to help. You have my word!”

The dragon doesn’t seem to believe her. But in its eye lies a flicker of hope. 

\---

After a failure or ten, Saber returns with an elk carcass in tow. (Jousting lances are too different from makeshift wooden spears. She needed time to practice.)

Taking the carcass from Eto’s back, Saber drags it to the cave entrance and waits. The scent should float down to the dragon’s nostrils soon. It must be hungry. And this stag was a prime specimen, shaggy and plump with the bounties of spring.

_Come eat, dragon…_

In the meantime, she takes a coil of rope from Eto’s saddlebag and ties a knot large enough to loop around a sword hilt. _I’ve no intention of burning my hands; I know dragon-fire too well for that!_

Speaking of which…neither fire nor dragon has yet to arrive. Perhaps it can’t smell so far underground?

After a moment’s pause, she flaps her sleeves like a hand-fan at the carcass. Nothing happens. She sighs. “I should have known.”

Eto grazes on a patch of grass, oblivious to human concerns.

Just when she debates going inside, the ground trembles beneath her feet. Clawing noises scrape at the night’s tranquility.

Tension heavy as a stone in her belly, Saber scrambles back.

And just in time: with a screech of pain and triumph, the dragon hauls itself out of the cave, destroying its creation as it leaves. Dirt and rocks tumble into the pond, splashing muddy water in every direction.

The dragon doesn’t care. Its lone eye is trained on the deer carcass. Saliva as hot as lava trickles from its maw, burning the ground.

Saber jerks her feet away as the dragons jaws come hurtling down. Yellowed teeth snap up the fresh meat in an instant.

 _Now’s my chance!_ Using the wet crunch of bone and meat as a cover, Saber creeps toward the dragon’s side as softly as a lion on the hunt. Dirt shifts beneath her feet. She keeps her gaze focused on the sword, while her other senses keep wary of the dragon.

The dragon twitches its withered wings in warning.

She pauses, unsure. Nothing happens. Emboldened, she reaches the blade in a mere three steps. “Please, hold still,” she whispers as soothingly as she can. “This will only take a moment.”

She’ll need to be precise. If she slips even an inch, she could graze the dragon’s heart.

Taking a deep breath, she readies her rope…

…And hot, foul-smelling breath blasts at her neck.

“I need you to remain calm,” Saber says with a firm voice. She doesn’t dare look over her shoulder. “Remember: I’m here to help you.”

The dragon snorts and lifts its head. Good.

“I’m going to take hold of the sword, now,” she warns, and decides to step back a few paces. Just in case.

The rope twirls madly in her hand. Target in sight. Curling her arm back, her head out of the rope’s range—and makes a toss.

The rope arcs through the air, knotting around the hilt. Even as steam plumes from it, it holds firm. 

For now.

“Here it comes,” Saber grits out. Digging her heels into the dirt and clenching the rope in her fists, she begins to pull.

The dragon lets out an agonized shriek, the cacophony driving nails of fear into Saber’s heart. It thrashes about in desperation. And yet, it doesn’t attack her.

Such good intentions don’t matter. A dragon’s insides are a pure furnace, and now the sword is heated by the dragon’s pain. Its steel may have melted by now. Burning heat continues emanating from the hilt as the dragon’s pained cries echo through the forest.

 _This is my only chance. I have to—pull—!_ The muscles in Saber’s arms stretch and shudder with each sharp yank. Braid by braid, the rope is already fraying.

“Run, Eto!” Saber yells over the din. She lifts a hand to wave him away. “Save yourself!”

If Eto heeds her order, it’s hard to say. There’s no time to check.

Then.

Just as the hilt finally gives, agonizing waves of fire wash over Saber’s palm from the scorching rope. A gasp of pain bursts from Saber’s lips. Instinctively she snatches her dominant hand away—but it’s too late. Crimson burns dig into her skin. The very air stings like frozen flame. _No…I was so close!_

There’s no time for regrets. The burns need to be quenched.

Saber bolts for the pond. On instinct she dunks her hand into its cold and clammy depths. The sudden change in temperature sends cold needles up her arm. Her skin smokes like tempered steel; nausea threatens to overwhelm her. Burning flesh never loses its horror.

Sucking in air as if she’s drowning, she waits with a galloping heart for the scorching pain to subside. At last it does.

Rocking to her feet, Saber turns back around, muddy water flowing in rivulets from her charred fingers. Her wound's beginning to heal, albeit slowly.  _Now,_ her racing mind insists,  _I can try again._  

The roars stop.

Saber peers up, furrowing her brows in confusion and pain.

The rope may be no more, but the sword is halfway freed. Death-pale moonlight casts a familiar glint on the flawless steel blade as it holds firm. Beneath the coat of dripping blood, the steel looks an ethereal blue.

Guilt and shame twisting her stomach, Saber turns away from its mocking light. _Was it an impossible task after all?_ Her hand throbs as if in answer.

Eto whickers uneasily. He’s downwind, but for him to sense something that far away…

Saber snaps her focus to the true victim in all this.

The dragon catches its breaths, steam still pluming from its half-open mouth. Despite the moon hanging in the sky, the night seems to cloak it in darkness. Only its golden eye is visible.    

Saber stumbles back, unsure of what it wants. “Forgive me,” she says, shame clawing at her throat. “I couldn’t save you.”

Silence.

Then—as if to prove her wrong—the dragon snorts and dips its massive head down. Teeth flash in the night.

And Saber listens, dumbfounded, to the sound of teeth clutching leather.

“…What…?” she murmurs, as flesh squelches and hisses before her.

Something disturbs the air, hitting the ground with a ringing clang. _That must be the sword. Did the dragon…pull it out on its own?_ A flash of fire casts light on the scene: the dragon searing its wound shut with a small flame. That answers that.    

“I think I understand,” Saber says, her voice strangely loud to her ears. “Once I began the work, you could finish it.”

The dragon snorts again. Shifting its weight (and sending stones rolling downhill like wheels in the process), it cranes its head to look Saber unflinchingly in the eye. Its topaz iris contracts like a cat’s, taking her in.

Minutes pass. In that silence, something like a bond sparks between them. Her neck prickles in warning.

Then the dragon’s second eyelid blinks. It’s a slow gesture, a movement meant to illuminate.

In that moment, Saber catches a glimpse of something:

_A woman in black armor stands wreathed in flames. Her pale hair sways among the sparks, yet doesn’t catch fire. She rests her hands on a demonic sword’s pommel, the blade of black and red glowing with an eerie light. A hole in her armor, the width of the sword trapped in the dragon’s breast, is being repaired as she stands. The intricacies of her eye are reforming as well._

_Could this be the dragon’s true form?_

_The woman’s lips twist into what could charitably be called a smile. Despite its coldness, it seems genuine. Her eyes are like the dragons, a piercing gold. “Thank you,” she mouths, and disappears._  

Perhaps it’s a trick of the light, or weariness is catching up to her. Or it’s the Throne of Heroes at work. When Saber’s vision returns, the dragon is nowhere to be seen.

She steps forward, injured hand outstretched to reach for what is no longer there. “What happened? Why…?”

The forest is cocooned in silence. It’s as if the trees themselves are watching her, awaiting her reaction.

In a daze, she recalls what Lancer said: _You may encounter visions from another time and place. Images of yourself—warped reflections._  

_“Warped”—_

Something close to fear overwhelms her senses. “Eto, to me,” she cries, hating the tremble in her voice. “We’re leaving this place!”

\---

The return trip is a dreamlike blur. Eto’s reins hang reassuringly in her good hand, and his breathing is slow and steady beneath the saddle. The mount is in better spirits than the rider.

“Did you know that dragon, Eto?” Saber asks, her words drenched in sleep.

Eto doesn’t answer; yet something in his gallop seems to change, to smooth out. Perhaps it’s _his_ way of saying “thank you”.

Saber thinks back on that strange vision, and a tired smile crosses her lips. _Perhaps…that woman remembered Eto as well._

\---

Eto leaves Saber at the castle gate, trotting northward with a jaunty curl to his tail. He only looks back once, atop a foggy hill. In a blink, he vanishes. Far in the distance, she hears the delighted neigh of horses heralding a friend’s return.

Due to her hand’s…“condition”, Saber is utterly off-balance. Jumping back over the castle walls isn’t an option; she needs to enter through one of the back doors. It takes time to open. Weary as she is, the castle grounds seem a watercolor haze.

Still she manages to shuffle into the Great Hall. “At last,” she breathes, and collapses onto the welcoming furs and pillows.

Lancer and Archer are curled up next to each other, deep in slumber. Archer’s draped his arms about Lancer’s waist possessively. Lancer mutters something in his sleep, a slight smile on his lips. Archer sighs back in contentment.

…They cannot see her like this.

“I need ointment and gauze,” she whispers as loud as she dares. The castle barely has time to provide them before she puts them to use, disregarding the sharp pain crackling from her palm. The cool, pungent ointment soothes her burned skin better than the pond did.

Binding her hand takes time. Too much time, in fact. Her fingers keep fumbling with the gauze, unable to hold it steady. Exhaustion as heavy as a stone pushes at her eyelids, willing them closed.

_Wait—I must finish—_

But her body doesn’t allow it.


	7. Before the Rain Falls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saber gets coddled a bit after her injuries and broaches a complicated subject or two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, "A Demanding Heart" should be winding up soon, if in a more leisurely way than most of my long fics. I'm hesitant to say in how many chapters, though. I keep having to split them! (And I don't want to rush out a fic whose entire mood is supposed to be both erotic and relaxing. XD)  
> Anyway, thank you for your patience, everyone!

Far-off voices float through the blanket of dreams cocooning Saber’s consciousness.

“…You should wait until Saber wakes, mongrel.”

“But she’s injured, and these burns need to be bandaged. How can I wait?”

Saber groans and tries to block out the sounds with her pillow. The silk casing hisses and crackles by her earlobe.

Something smooth yet firm presses against her back. A gentle touch follows suit, as if to apologize. It’s…very warm and soothing, able to lull her back into sleep with ease. In front of her, something soft and filmy—gauze, or a bandage—is being wound about her hand. No pain is left from her burns; only a tingling numbness remains.

_Wait—the burns—!_

It’s a struggle to wake up. She makes to rub sleep-grime from her eyes, only to find her arm eased back down.

“What…? Oh,” she slurs.

“Apologies,” Lancer says, a strange tautness in his voice. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Yes,” Archer coaxes, his breath tickling her hair, “slumber a little while longer, as you promised.”

“That…sounds pleasant…” Saber yawns. “Hmm…with Lancer as well.”

Lancer laughs quietly. “In a moment, perhaps. Just let me finish—there, that’ll do.”

“Thank you,” Saber mumbles.

Then gray morning sunlight lances into her eyes, breaking through her dreams in an instant.

Saber snaps awake. She assesses the situation: Lancer is kneeling at her side, having just bandaged her burned hand. His body is tense and trembling with nerves. Most striking of all, his face is pale with worry, as if he expects her to fade away at any moment.

“You knew this would happen,” she gently reminds him.

“Still…” Lancer sighs and rubs his face with his free hand. “…To receive burns like these…”

“They will take time to heal,” Archer adds. “They’re already healing, in fact. Thank goodness it was only a single hand.”

Lancer brushes Saber’s hair from her eyes. “What happened out there?”

Shaking herself fully awake, Saber explains what happened. Her audience is a patient one. They smile at the entrance of Eto, and nod solemnly at the dragon’s plight.

“And so you rescued it.” Calm returns to Lancer’s eyes. “That is admirable of you, and good in the long run—perhaps that dragon was the cause of yesterday’s heat.”

“…Yes, perhaps.”

“I, too, deign to praise you.” Archer stands and ambles to the dining table. “Just for today I’ll share a table with you, if not a meal. I ate earlier.”

Saber’s belly gurgles. Ignoring her injury she lurches to her feet. “Have you eaten as well, Lancer?”

“Yes, but I wouldn’t mind keeping you company.” He inclines his head toward her injury. “Is this your dominant hand?”

Saber scowls down at it. “Yes, unfortunately.”

“Then I’d be honored to assist you.” As anxious as he is, some things remain constant.

“I’ll lend a hand as well.” Archer takes a seat at the table, one leg draped over the other. “It seems a fair exchange, after you fed us the other day.”

She nods in agreement. “Then for now I shall rely on you.”

The journey to the table is a long one. She’s still a bit sore from traveling. Lancer accompanies her each step of the way, a helpful shadow at her heels. 

Saber sits opposite Archer and looks him over. Aside from the gold bangles and necklace, he’s wearing her colors today. _A dark blue shirt with the top button unbuttoned and white trousers…odd._

She feels rather than sees Lancer sit at her side, waiting patiently.

Today’s breakfast is simple: two bowls of steaming rice porridge, a separate bowl of lavender honey to stir into it, and a plate laden with chunks of white bread for dipping. Mugs of cool mint tea sit on the side. It’s a comforting spread, suitable for this gray day.

“I can manage the tea,” she says, making a point of using her weaker hand. The mug wobbles dangerously as she picks it up. Foregoing manners, she lowers her head to the mug and takes a sip. It’s more of a slurp, but her companions don’t seem to mind. “There.” She lifts her head, smiling at her success. “Not even a drop.”

Archer scoops up a spoonful of honey, watching the excess strands slide back into the golden pool they came from. “How much honey would you like, Saber?”

“Just a spoonful should be enough.”

Grinning, he ladles it into her porridge, giving it a yolk-like center. “Hmm. Now it needs to be stirred.”

Lancer chuckles drily and plucks an unused spoon from the table. “Allow me.”

“You needn’t go _that_ far,” Saber grumbles half-heartedly.

“I know,” he says as he swirls the honey into the porridge like a whirlpool. “If I can lend aid, even in a small way…well, you understand.”

“…Yes, I do.” She directs her smile to both Archer and Lancer. “Thank you.”

Lancer hands the spoon over to her; it’s still warmed by his hand.

Breakfast goes better than expected: somehow nothing is spilled, and Archer takes the act of feeding Saber seriously. (Which is to say, he doesn’t teasingly hold morsels out of reach. At least not yet.)

Lancer still seems bothered by her injury. He doesn’t say so aloud, but it’s obvious. Which is understandable. Even one who loves tending the needs of others has his limits; perhaps this is his.

“What shall we do today?” Archer asks, once the empty dishes vanish. “It may rain soon—but there are entertainments to be had regardless.”

Lancer rises from the table, a crease in his brow. “…I’m afraid I need to leave the castle for a bit. I haven’t hunted in awhile; I miss that heady rush.”

Saber nods in understanding. “There are plenty of elk in that forest—between us, I daresay you’ll have better luck!”

“Elk, hmm? How nostalgic.” Lancer grins, poking Saber’s cheek good-naturedly. “Very well, make sure to keep Archer out of trouble while I’m away!”

She lightly places a hand on her heart and gives a slight bow. “As long as _you_ do the same during your hunt.”

Lancer is willing to laugh, at least. He flicks a sly gaze over to Archer. “It takes two to keep a promise. Or in our case, three.”

Archer yawns, covering his mouth with a hand. “What a strange mood you’re in!” He snickers. “But I suppose that’s to be expected. Enjoy your hunt, mongrel.”

Lancer takes his leave, a slight tension remaining in his shoulders. The door of the Great Hall closes without a sound.

“Well,” Archer says, rolling his shoulder, “now we have the castle to ourselves.” He stretches as he rises; his muscles ripple like waves lapping on the shore. “What to do…”

Saber sniffs her skin and winces. “I need to bathe; I reek of sweat and the outdoors.”

For some reason, that catches Archer’s attention. “Oh, do you?” He sways over to her side, his hands framing his hips. “That has a certain appeal, you know.”

Saber looks him over, suspicious. “…How so?”

Smiling, he tilts his head as if awaiting a kiss. “Hmm…imagine Lancer returning from his hunt. His skin is flushed with sweat and satisfaction. The pure scent of him fills the air…”

It’s easy to envision: _An elk is draped over his shoulders, ready to be skinned and cooked. His smile is that mix of sly and sweet she’s seen so often while sparring. And then…_

She swallows hard. “I—I understand now. You needn’t continue.”

Archer chuckles but obeys. “In any event, why not take this opportunity to indulge a bit? With your hand’s state, activities like sparring will be impossible.”

She sighs and scowls down at her hand. “I know. Perhaps relaxing _would_ be best.”

“Good, very good!” Draping a companionable arm across her shoulders, he guides her over to the door. “The moat is especially inviting this time of year.”

She blinks in surprise. “Isn’t the water there ‘unclean’ to someone like you?”

Archer’s shrug ripples against her back. “There is an appeal in ‘unclean’ things from time to time. And I did my share of traveling.”

“…I see.” She smiles. “The moat it is, then.”

\---

The water is surprisingly cool, even in this weather. It laps against Saber’s calves as she sits at the bank of the moat, resting her hands in her lap. (The bandages are safe from getting wet.) The parasol Archer used yesterday stands above her head, despite the silver clouds turning the sky to the color of glass. Even without the sun, there’s a sort of mugginess in the air. As a result, she had more of a rinsing than a bath. It'll have to do. 

 _Just as Irisviel said, sundresses are ideal for this weather._ This one is plain white, with a long row of buttons at the front and a small black ribbon around the middle. Guinevere would like it as well. 

With a cheerful sigh, she kicks her legs leisurely. Droplets spray out in an arc, glittering in the pale sun like gems. “Do you have enough shade, Archer?”

He nods, the full length of him stretched out beside her. Of course, he set up a blanket to protect his trousers from the terror of grass stains. “If you need refreshment, ask.”

“Hmm. Not just yet.” The water shimmers in the sunlight. Every now and then, black water-skaters smaller than grains of rice dance along the top. “…Archer. When you first came here, what happened? Did you see a dragon as well?”

“I don’t recall,” he murmurs sleepily, trailing fingertips through the water. “It was many centuries ago. Perhaps I aided a lion; perhaps it was something else. Regardless…your tale seems familiar.”

Saber lifts a hand to rest her chin on it. Reconsiders. “I suspected as much.” Her lips tilt upwards. “Despite my injury, it was worthwhile.”

Archer hums and rolls onto his belly. His legs kick the air in a lazy rhythm. “Indeed. As always, you followed the path you believed in. What is there to regret?” A hint of amusement tinges his words.

Saber glowers at him out of the corner of her eye. “Are you mocking me, King of Heroes?”

“Not quite.” Archer rubs his feet together, showing off the sheen of sweat covering their soles. “It’s far too humid for mockery.”

Saber groans in agreement. Even in the shade, and with her legs half-submerged in cool water, she’s sweltering.

A bird's shadow passes over the grass, whirling and diving in search of bugs.

“Well, there is _one_ way to cool off.” Shedding his shirt and jewelry in a flurry of motion, Archer wades into the water. Water ripples out around him like a halo. His chest expands as he lets out a sigh of relief. “…Yes. This is _much_ better.”

“There may be fish in there,” she tells him, watching him sink down to his neck.

“All the better, then!” He takes a breath and dives, leaving only a silvery ripple behind.

Saber sits back and watches his blurred figure swim under the moat, his light kicks as smooth as an otter’s. He swims past her view; he must plan a complete circuit.  _At the very least, I can walk beside him._

Rising awkwardly to her feet, she strolls over the grass to the water’s edge. Then—as if stepping onto a dais, or the next flight of stairs—she reaches the water. The gentle waves tickle her bare soles. Smothering a laugh, she looks around for Archer. Even if he knows about the blessing of the Lady of the Lake, she wants to surprise him anyway.

“Archer,” she calls, “where are you?”

There’s no response save for distant splashing.

 _Very well, I will find you myself._ Hopping over rocks and shaking clingy reeds from her ankles, she heads off in search of Archer.

It doesn’t take long to find him. Rather, she rounds the back of the castle and feels his hair play about her toes. On instinct, she jumps away—she refuses to let him glance up her skirt even for an instant—only to discover with relief that he was too focused on swimming to notice.  

With a fluttering kick, Archer turns about and lifts his head from the water. “Should you be wading…” he starts, only to blink dumbly at her feet. “…Ah. Now I remember; pay that no heed.”

Saber allows herself a small boast. “The Lady’s blessing is a valuable gift.”

“Shall we put it to the test?” He swims closer to her, boyish mischief bright in his eyes. “For curiosity’s sake, of course.”

“I would prefer a race.” Saber crouches down, one foot in front of the other. “Once around the moat. The winner receives the finest portion of whatever meat Lancer returns with. What do you say?”

Archer laughs in approval. “How generous of you! Very well.” With unexpected patience, he paddles over to her and waits for her signal.

Saber focuses on the curve of the water, gauging the distance. “Ready…steady…go!”

And she takes off, waves fanning out like wings around her feet.

Archer splashes just a few steps behind. With his long reach, he could overtake her with ease.

_Perhaps I’ll let him; I can pick up speed later._

Archer crawl-strokes ahead, taking no quarter as expected. He dives under a tangle of reeds, his feet barely clipping the water.

Easing into a brisk jog, she lets her mind wander.

In the distant forest beyond her view, Lancer must be hunting. Perhaps he’s fashioned spears; perhaps he’s digging traps. Either way, she has no doubt he’s enjoying himself.

_…Which reminds me. Yesterday, I gave Lancer pleasure as I hoped I could. But what of Archer? Surely, he also wished for it…_

That familiar ache settles between her thighs. Now that she thinks of it, this may be the perfect opportunity to mention some other things she read yesterday. _While I’d prefer having Lancer here as well, Archer will doubtless tell him later. Or I can._

With that settled, she racks her brain, pondering where to begin. She’s so deep in thought, she almost misses when she bests Archer to the finish line. 

"Another round?" Saber asks, as Archer catches his breath beside her, his hair plastered to his forehead. 

"Of course," he replies, and they dash off again for two more laps.

\---

Some time later, Archer comes ashore, his skin slick and glittering in the sunlight. There’s no fish in hand; he’s smiling anyway. His trousers have essentially ceased to exist, his taut and muscular thighs pebbled with gooseflesh.

Saber, victor of the race and sitting on the grass, wrenches her gaze away toward the swaying reeds. “Welcome back.”

Archer laughs raggedly, still catching his breath. “Did I keep you waiting, Saber? I apologize.” The sound of him washing his feet in the water carries through the humid air. “Hand me my shoes—no, wait—”

It’s too late. On instinct Saber already picked them up. Ignoring the pain lancing through her injured hand at their weight, she bends her wrist to toss them his way. “Here—”

Archer dashes up the bank to stand before her, heedless of the blades of grass sticking to his feet and ankles. “Did I not say to wait?” he asks with a voice like cold steel. He takes the shoes from her with overwrought care, letting them dangle from each hand.

“Yes,” Saber says, her hackles rising. “We both made mistakes just now.”

His lips thin into a scowl. Wiping his feet on a corner of the blanket, he slips on his shoes and marches back to her side. “Give me your hand, foolish one. You injured yourself again.”

“And you’re soaking wet,” Saber snaps back, bringing her fist to her chest. There’s no trace of injury that she can see. “How will drenched bandages help, _foolish one_?”

His gaze hardens. “…You have a point.” He pores over her hand for a long moment.

Saber bites her lip. _He’s so close to me._ Glancing from below, she can see droplets beading at his chest, glinting like diamonds on his taut nipples. Each breath makes them tremble. The droplets fall onto her lap mockingly, leaving damp heat behind.

“—Are you finished staring, King of Heroes?” she grumbles.   

Archer’s face softens, as if satisfied. “Yes, you’re healing better than I thought.” He slicks back his damp hair with a hand. “Humph. I must apologize yet again.”

_This may be the best opportunity I have…!_

Saber rises to her feet, clearing her throat. “Archer,” she says primly, “I have a question for you.” 

He looks askance at her and smirks. “…Yes, Saber?”

“Yesterday, I found a small but curious paragraph in one of those books…” Just saying so aloud gives her a boost of confidence. “I wondered if we could try reversing it.”

As she explains, Archer listens patiently, a glint of pleasure in his eyes. When she finishes, he gestures for her to join him on the blanket. “In this case, standing is inefficient.”

“What about your trousers? They’re still wet.”

“I can exchange them for new ones,” he says and snaps his fingers. It’s just as he says: the wet pair vanishes from his person, and a dry pair appears in their place. “You see?”

Saber nods and moves to sit down beside him. She’s halfway seated when Archer crooks a finger.

“What is it?” she asks with a frown.

He smiles beguilingly and glances down at his lap. “You would reach your destination faster if you simply ‘arrived’, after all.”

She tries to keep the color rising on her cheeks from view. “—Oh. Yes, that simplifies things. Excuse me.”

With Archer’s hands bunching up the hem of her dress, she inches down onto his thighs. The heat coming off them threatens to overwhelm her. She knows he can tell, it’s clear in his smile. That only pushes her onward.

Archer sighs fondly as at last she seats herself on his lap. “You could have moved down a little…but this is a lovely sight in its own way.” The heat of him seeps against her underwear, coaxing a telltale throb from her sex. “Oh? How intriguing.”

Gooseflesh blooms on her skin as Archer’s lips skim across her neck. “I-It’s a natural reaction!”

“Which is _precisely_ what makes it intriguing.” His fingers trail across the back of her neck, coaxing sweet shivers from her skin.

Saber relaxes into his touch—this is part of what they’re both here for. Each unhurried kiss pressed to her lips, the curve of her neck, cheeks, and her ears strengthen that resolve. His skin is still cool from the water as it strokes against hers.

“Your skin feels good,” she murmurs, “it’s refreshing.”

“Good.” Archer guides her down into a reclining position, one hand cradling her head. She’s at eye-level with his sculpted chest now. “You seem eager to begin. Shall we?”

Saber licks her lips, her mouth already watering at the sight.

That must be answer enough; Archer laughs and arcs his chest closer. “Go on, then, be as audacious as you wish!”

 _As if I needed prompting._ Wetting his nipple with her tongue, she revels in the salty taste that greets her. The unadorned scent of him stirs her blood.

Moans and laughter mix in Archer’s throat. “That’s it, Saber, savor the taste of me.” The hand holding her head strokes her hair, toying with her ponytail.

“…Yes…”

His hand rests at her waist, waiting her orders. “How do you pleasure yourself when you’re alone, Saber?”

“W-Well…” Her breasts swell, as if searching for his hands. “…I t-tend not to touch my chest. Rather…” She falters.

“‘Rather…’?” Archer’s voice lilts upwards, playful and questioning.

Unable to find the words, she parts her thighs and points.

“Ah,” he says, and his hand glides down her trembling belly. “How straightforward.” He lifts up her dress, folding it back to give himself more room.

Saber preoccupies herself with Archer’s breast, drawing the rosy tip into her mouth and feeling it harden against her tongue. _It almost tastes sweet…how strange._ Just like last night, her mind is overrun with lustful ramblings.  

Then Archer’s fingers come to a stop just at the waistband of her underwear. Seconds pass.

Inwardly squirming with bashful excitement, Saber presses her middle and index fingers together. Rubs the air.

Then—following her wordless instructions—two of Archer’s fingers reach down to lightly graze her through the fabric. His chuckle vibrates inside her mouth. “My, my, but you’re hard for me!”

That may be true, but it's strange hearing it said aloud. She pointedly grazes Archer's sensitive skin with her teeth—which only serves to send a shiver through him.

“And impudent as well, I see,” he says, voice husky with desire. “That is fine in its own way.” He strokes her again, harder this time, and sparks lick up her back.

Saber gives as good as she gets, rolling his nipple around her tongue as if it were candy. Every so often she glances up at him, finding his pupils dark and growing wider every second. An approving hum fills her throat.

Archer raises an eyebrow. “This was more than idle fancy,” he murmurs, nudging her forward with his hand. “You delight in using your mouth.”

Saber hums again, this time in bashful agreement. Saliva leaks past her lips, wetting Archer's chest and abs.

“Speaking of which,” Archer says with a grin, his fingers leaving her sex for a moment, “I wonder how these flavors would mix together?”

Saber gasps around the swell of Archer's breast as he scoops up a trickle of saliva with his already damp fingertips. _Is he really going to...?_ Her heart thrums as he brings his fingers to his mouth.

Archer's lips part, inviting his fingers inside. His eyes widen in surprise. Apparently her "flavors" take getting used to. He sucks at his fingertips like a man at a feast. 

“Sharp,” he decides after sliding his fingers free with a lewd sound. “And a slight tartness as well.”

Saber comes up for air, light-headed.

Its only natural Archer should take advantage of this. Bringing his hand back to where she aches most, his fingers feather along the slick curves of her sex as if testing for something.

Saber whimpers, her hips jolting at his touch. The first flutters of pleasure roll through her body: little spasms that serve to inflame her further. _I needed this more than I thought—_

Archer’s words dance along the shell of her ear. “You turned all your energy toward Lancer last night, hmm? And now, your flesh is hard and aching for release. You poor thing.”

Saber’s toes curl. Something about that phrase—whether it’s what came before it, the artifice, the sincerity smoldering in Archer’s eyes, or something else—ignites her blood.

Archer hums against her nape. “Your resilience is impressive. But in the end, needs must be met.” His fingers continue to toy with her. “…Lancer’s, for example.”

“How so?” Saber whispers.

Archer’s fingers circle her swelling nub, the distance growing ever smaller. “Surely you noticed! Your finger was sucked into his opening, it claimed your touch…and yet you believe he was satisfied?”

“But”—she rocks back against Archer’s firm thighs—“h-he went hunting!”

“That he did. However, when he returns…”

She manages to frown. “Then what?”

With surprising gentleness, Archer angles her mouth back to his flushed and eager areola. She accepts it eagerly, awash in him again.

“Hmm…he could practice alone. The bath is an excellent locale for such things.” Archer’s eyes close, as if savoring it. “As he bathes, lathered in soap and flushed with heat, he could kneel…”

Saber’s thigh brushes against something hard and molten. It’s barely contained in Archer’s trousers. Heat quakes through her.

“…And perhaps, with some trepidation, he could retrace the path _you_ took.” Archer grins as his teasing ministrations continue. “Lancer would be shy, of course, even when alone.” His brows crease in faux-innocence. “‘Ah, I'm still sensitive here…if I touch it gently, as Saber did, then it should be fine’…”

Saber moans against him as her trembling sex pulsates with need at his words. There is little point in wearing underwear now: they’re so drenched that Archer can trace every tingling inch of her.

Archer’s fingers tangle in Saber’s hair, holding her in place. “Please, Saber,” he urges, “pleasure me with that sweet mouth.”

Everything melts down, leaving only the molten heat throbbing through her veins. The peaked tip of Archer’s nipple tightens against her tongue.

…Time passes. For how long, she cannot say. Warmth surrounds her, playing her flesh like a harp. Perhaps that was her first orgasm; it’s hard to tell in this lustful dream.

“Saber,” Archer murmurs, a smile in his voice, “you’ve opened for me. Can you sense it?”

 _Of course I can._ The lips of her sex tingle and ache against her drenched underwear, begging for more. Her hips spread wide, granting him further access.

Archer sucks in a breath. His heart beats against her lips. “Shall I stroke inside you?” he asks, circling his fingertips against that wet patch. “It’ll be a shallow touch.”

Worry jolts through her. She lifts her head to look him in the eye, gauging his intentions.

Archer’s hair is a disheveled, sweaty mess, and his face is as red as cherries with exertion and lust. Even with the fire smoldering behind his eyes, there remains a firm glint of control. _He doesn’t wish to harm me, hence why he asks. Still…_

“If”—she clears her throat—“if I’m in pain, you must promise me you’ll stop.”

He nods, unsurprised. “As Lancer’s lover, I swear it.”

Accepting his promise, Saber returns to his nipple; sharing this pleasure soothes her worries. Her good hand toys with the one she neglected earlier, feeling it stiffen at her touch. _Thank goodness he enjoys this too…_

Something slick glides across her thigh—her underwear’s pulled aside, giving Archer the access her needs. His hand glides along her sex, cupping it with ease. _Oh—he’s massaging it—!_ Slippery sounds follow suit, burning up all rational thought.

“When Lancer returns,” Archer says huskily, “you should ask him about his technique.” He rolls his palm, sending waves of pleasure flooding through her hips. “Speaking from experience…he’s _quite_ talented in this arena.”

“Tell me,” Saber rasps against his chest.

“Truly?” He chuckles, continuing his ministrations. “Ah, I see. You wish to know my preferences. Very well.”

Saber fights back a whimper as Archer’s touch turns soft as down, a mere cut above a tickle.

“While Lancer has yet to welcome me inside, _I’ve_ enjoyed embracing him for some time. Not every day; such pleasures are best savored.”

Archer’s other hand massages the sensitive nape of Saber’s neck, lulling her into his words.

“I’ve regaled you of Lancer’s shyness and desire to please before—and you know them well, now. So I shall focus elsewhere…ah, I know. He isn’t always so sweet, and neither am I. On occasion, we enjoy rougher play.”

At those words, Saber remembers what Lancer mentioned back then. _Is this what he meant?_ She almost stops her suckling in her curiosity.

“In those instances,” Archer continues with a smirk, “I need to feel our joining at once, whether it’s his fingers or his arousal. And so…once I have him alone, I shower him with kisses, pressed against whatever surface we can find. Once he’s panting for it”—Archer’s breath catches—“I take him by the hand, and shove it between my thighs.”

Saber lifts her head to ask a question. “Does Lancer guess your…predicament…beforehand?”

“Certainly. You know how I adore teasing; such haste is rare.” Archer’s voice lowers to a seductive whisper. “And now his hand is surrounded by hot flesh, the cleft of my backside drenched in oil. Is that not hint enough?”

Saber squirms in Archer’s lap as his fingertips smooth over her sex, enforcing the point. “Yes, yes,” she moans, her hips swaying with his movements.

“I should hope so,” Archer purrs. “You desire it, do you not? To slip inside us, feel our tight heat envelop you as we languish in pleasure?”

Of course she does. She yearns for it enough to force Archer down right now, shove fingers or phallus or both into the depths of him and—and—

He looks down at her, his expression captivatingly primal. “Good; we can discuss that later.” His touch grows stronger. “For now…breathe deeply, in and out. I’m about to keep my word to you.”

Saber does her best to relax her breathing, aided by Archer’s own calm inhale and exhale. Though she wants to suck at his chest again, it’s clear she needs to breathe evenly for this to feel pleasurable.

“Yes, that’s it, Saber…in and out.” Archer presses a kiss to her forehead; the chaste touch is contrasted with two splayed fingers spreading her open. And then…

It’s as if Saber is a harp, and Archer plucked the first note. The tip of his middle finger glides inside her painlessly, rubbing gently back and forth. It’s a strange sensation, smooth and thick.

“Does it pain you?” Archer asks, pausing to gauge her reaction.

Saber shakes her head. “I’m merely surprised.”

He hums in amusement, easing in further and crooking his finger. “Such is the power of pleasure. All it took was loving my nipples with your mouth, toying with your bud…and you became like this.”

Saber looks away, trying to hide the embarrassed yet lustful blush rising to her cheeks. “A-And your words, as well,” she admits.

“Is that so? Here, let me rearrange you.” At that, Archer changes her position: now she’s sitting, her back pressed flush against his bare chest. “I must say, I’m pleased to hear such praise from your lips.” His breath ghosts across her ear and neck.

“Ah—Archer?” Saber can’t hold back a shudder as Archer’s free hand roams over her body, stopping at her breasts.

“This way, you can control the pace.” Archer trails his hot tongue down the curve of her neck, his breath cooling the saliva he leaves behind. “Lower your hips and see for yourself.”

After taking a moment to steel her body, Saber cautiously angles her hips downward. When she does, ivory sparks flash before her eyes. Her entrance—something is happening to it, it’s pulsing, gripping—

She hears herself babbling about Archer’s fingers. _So warm…and gentle…_ Like this, she can feel the slope of each joint. The heel of his hand is rubbing against the bundle of nerves crowning her sex, sending delicious heat throbbing from her waist to her chest.

Archer moans softly against her ear. “Now you know my preference as well.” He picks up the pace, his long fingers sliding up and down inside her as if to coax endless orgasms from her molten depths. “Ah, you’re convulsing around me…just as Lancer and I will around _you_ , soon enough. Take your pleasure, Saber, yes, _take me_ —”

It’s those last two words that finish it. Saber cries out, a frenzied burst of pleasure setting her flesh ablaze. She rocks against his palm, sending electric shudders throughout her oversensitive body. Each shallow, frantic breath heats her throat and mouth.

Slowly, the tension melts away. As her heartbeat slows, she rests her head against his chest, basking in the sensations. The world seems blurred around the edges now.

A sudden thought intrudes on her softened mind. She twists slightly to look at his face. “Archer…what about you? I shouldn’t be the only one being pleasured.”

At that, she has Archer’s full attention. “You wish to see my pleasure, then? What a surprise. I believed that you had only eyes for Lancer’s.”

Saber tips her head in acknowledgement. “I admit, I’m still growing accustomed to your…nature. I wish to know it, as Lancer does.”

Archer smiles down at her, lust still sparking behind his eyes.  “Truly, your charms are immeasurable! Unfortunately…” He glances down at his stained trousers with something resembling sheepishness. “…Behold.”

“Perhaps the aphrodisiac could help?”

He shrugs one shoulder leisurely. “It could. But it benefits you and Lancer more than I.”

She heaves a heavy sigh. “Oh, well. I can witness it later.”

“Yes; what we just experienced was pleasurable enough.” Oh—which reminds me. Behold, Saber.”

Saber stares thoughtlessly at the fingers he’s holding out before her. They’re drenched down to the knuckle with thick, shining liquid. It gives off a strong, sensual fragrance. And a familiar one.

Her heart begins to thrum. “Is”—she gulps—“is that mine?”

He nods, turning his hand up to show off his glistening palm. “I was about to wash it away in the moat. However…” He grins. “I wondered if you had other ideas.”

Unlike water, her nectar is determined to cling to his skin. Even when he splits his fingers apart, it simply strings out like spider-silk between the gaps. Indelicate slippery sounds stain the air.

“What shall we do?” Archer asks, wiggling his fingers teasingly. “I must hear it from your lips.”

The answer is simple. “I want to see you taste them,” she says, moving so that she’s facing him. Her lips edge into a smirk. “Even the King of Heroes must clean up after himself.”

“…What?”

“You saw me come undone. It’s only fair that I should have a similar view.”

For once, the King of Heroes has lost his words. After a long, considering pause…he expels a shallow breath. “Fair play indeed!” He laughs. “In that case…thank you for the meal, sweet King of Knights,” he whispers, before bringing his palm to his lips.

 _I’ve witnessed this scene once,_ Saber thinks, _surely I can endure it easily this time._

She’s soon proven wrong. Wine is one thing. Her own juices, still hot from her body, are quite another.

Archer’s clever tongue draws a path from his palm up to his fingers, as leisurely as an evening stroll. His eyes close, their lashes flickering like a butterfly’s wings.

“The flavors are stronger now,” he says blissfully. “Mm, and so thick…you restrained yourself too much, Saber.”  

Saber’s body responds before she realizes it, even if she’s too exhausted to do much about it currently. Her gaze is glued to Archer, tracking his every quiver.

Archer laps at the webbing between his fingers as if he’s parched with thirst. “Is this how Lancer felt last night, I wonder…? Did his mind go blank, as he felt us devouring him?”

It’s almost a relief to know she wasn’t the only one drowning in pleasure last night. Even the mere mention of it brings with it phantom sensations: the taste of Lancer’s skin, the heat of his body. Hot sparks tickle up her back. 

“Of course,” Archer adds between licks, “he still requires training. Yes. We could take your fingers first…then our own…and increase from there.”

“I-Increase’?” She clasps her hands, yearning to use them yet too entranced by her fellow king to do so.

He laughs softly, his hand almost clean. “Does that excite you, Saber? Good. Until your hand heals…we have time to practice. But what of yourself?”

“I’m not sure.” 

“Perhaps,” he says with surprising gentleness, “you should focus on me for a time.”

Saber resists the urge to roll her eyes. “As expected from a man like you.”

“Well, it’s obvious you’re having difficulties.”  

“Hmm…there is _something_ that could help _._ But—that would be at a later date.”

Archer doesn’t seem to understand at first. Then he grins wickedly. “You’ll need to give a thorough description, Saber. Otherwise, how can I assist?”

She expected that. “Very well. If—if you and Lancer agree to it, I’d like to see your embrace firsthand.” She also expects Archer will agree; voyeurism seems among his favorite pleasures.

But instead, his eyes narrow obstinately. “Such an act may be more personal than you know.”

Saber turns her gaze to the ground. “Then you feel Lancer will refuse.”

“That’s almost a certainty.” Archer’s voice regains a bit of its good humor. “However…are you certain you want nothing else? You needn’t hold back.”

Of course there’s something else. It’s something she’s struggled with for a while now. Not penetration, but something equally intimate. After a moment of deliberation, she tries to explain.

“Then, if you both agree to it, at some point...” She peers up through her eyelashes shyly. “…I would like to feel your mouths on me.”

Archer doesn’t say a word. The silence stretches on like morning fog, sending a spike of worry through Saber’s gut. _Did I not phrase it right? He may not want that right now—if ever._

“Yet again, you’re fretting too much,” Archer says with a beleaguered sigh, briefly stroking her cheek. “I apologize; I was merely at a loss for words.”

Saber chuckles. “The King of Heroes, shy? What a surprise.”

Archer glances away, a telltale redness adorning his cheeks. “Put simply, your words were a sweet surprise.”

“Oh.”

He shrugs one shoulder leisurely and stands. “It _is_ an excellent idea, however. A moment; my hand requires rinsing.”

With a jaunty spring in his step, he echoes Saber’s cleanliness the night before—and receives yet another clean pair of trousers in the bargain. But then, with the castle’s magic, they can afford such luxuries.  

Slowly, an idea takes root in Saber’s mind. “I have an idea—and it will help Lancer as well.”

“And what might that be?” Archer asks over his shoulder, wiping his hand on his shirt.

“Put simply, a hot bath.” She tugs her sundress back down, smoothing out the wrinkles as best she can. “Let us be off.”

After briefly looking her over with obvious appreciation, Archer helps her up. His hand is still damp. “Where are we off to?”

“To the wife’s quarters. Why do you ask?” Her head bumps lightly against his chest as she stumbles forward.

“The rain we were promised is finally on the horizon,” he replies, steadying her.

Now that he mentions it, Saber _does_ smell rain. And the clouds are darker, the wind more biting. “I hope Lancer is safe.”

Archer isn’t as concerned. “As you mentioned, there are plenty of places to hide in that forest. And besides,” he adds lasciviously, “we need to prepare the bath!”

Just then, Lancer calls out across the rolling fields: “What are you two doing? The rain should fall any minute!”

The First Knight of Fianna is a dark smudge on the horizon, backed by grey clouds. Regardless of the weather, his is a glad sight indeed.

Saber cups her hands over her mouth and answers “Back so soon? Impressive!”

“Yes, and it’s a surprise”—Lancer sounds testy—“so please go inside so it can stay that way!”

Archer and Saber look at each other quizzically.

“A surprise?”

“For us?”

The first drop of rain splashes onto Saber’s head, breaking her reverie.  _A hand-cooked meal from Lancer!_   With that, she dashes across the moat into the castle, Archer laughing close behind.

The bath will be their return gift.


	8. Of Gifts and Lovers' Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On a rainy evening, a delicious meal and a hot bath with lovers are not to be missed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seven months later, the 8th chapter is here! Late 2018 and early 2019 were very rough for me IRL; thank you all so much for being patient.

Saber and Archer rush to the Great Hall, taking their seats before the fireplace with less decorum than usually expected of their stature. (But then, they are soaking wet. The rain doesn’t spare the inadequately attired.)

Saber frantically rubs her hands together for warmth, chilled to the roots of her hair. “We arrived just in time; the wind is starting to howl.”

Archer grunts as he tugs at his clinging clothes. “How you and Lancer can withstand such weather throughout the year, I’ll never comprehend!”

She chuckles and tries to help him. “My uncle had similar thoughts. His old joints ached when winter arrived.”

“Humph. Well, _my_ joints are in perfect condition.” Wriggling like a beached fish, Archer manages to free himself from imprisonment. The shirt and trousers fly in lopsided arcs before hitting the stone mantle of the fireplace with a wet  _splat_. “There, you see?”

Saber nods sagely. “Well done, you defeated your foe.”

Archer opens his mouth to retort—until he grows still, as if he heard something. “Sssh.” His voice drops to a whisper. “Listen. Can you hear that?”

Saber closes her eyes and listens intently. “I heard Lancer walking to the kitchens earlier.”

“Yes, but aside from that!”

Her brows furrow. “…Tapping?” She opens her eyes and turns her body toward the door of the great hall, waiting expectantly. Perhaps the source of the sound will appear soon.

The tapping grows ever louder, somehow overwhelming even the pounding rain outside. It’s a rhythmic sound, delicate and precise.

Just as Saber considers getting up, she figures out the source of the sound. “Lancer found a cutting board.”

“Ah, good—then it’s nothing serious.” Archer shakes his head in self-derision and laughs. “It seems my craving for adventure is returning, little by little. Holding my breath over a mere cutting board, ha! What nonsense.”

A dark cloud of worry falls over Saber’s heart. _I see. Archer and Lancer cannot stay here forever. This is a place of healing, and wounds must finish mending at some point._  

“Saber? You look troubled.” Archer peers at her curiously.

“…Oh, it’s nothing.” She tries to laugh it off and falters midway through, her chuckle wobbling away into silence. “Well, perhaps not. But at present, I have no wish to talk about it.”

“Hmm. Very well.” He summons a simple (by his standards) linen robe and slips into it with the slightest rustling of fabric.

The conversation drifts off. It’s a comfortable silence—an achievement Saber never anticipated when she first arrived here. _Strange. I suppose that’s possible when wars end._ Which is yet another achievement she’s never truly known. _Enough about that; I have happier things to attend to._

Mouth-watering, savory scents waft in from the kitchen. They’re a little different from what Saber’s used to, which serves to make her stomach rumble with impatience. _Dinner should be soon; I must be patient._ Fortunately, she’s used to waiting.

“How fares your injury?” Archer asks. The idle way he glances at her hand contrasts with the note of concern in his voice.

“…I’m unsure.” So saying, she picks at the bandages with her good hand; the knots are difficult to unwind.

“We should applaud Lancer’s efforts!” Archer teases, snickering at her struggle.

Grumbling, Saber tears at the binding with her teeth—and tugs it free with a forceful _rrrrrip_. (It tastes terrible, making it a literal bitter victory.) “There!” she pants, spitting out bits of fabric in a most barbaric manner. “Now we can see. What say you?”

He takes hold of her wrist with a grip somewhere between delicate and firm, holding it up to the fire’s glow. “Hmm.” In this light, the crease between his brows looks like a dot of ink. “Flex for me, one finger at a time.”

“Like this?”

“Good. What sensations do you feel?”

“Well…it doesn’t pain me.”

“Better still.” A pause. “Now clench your fingers into a fist, as tightly as you can—yes, precisely. Judging by your reactions, you aren’t in agony from it.”

“No. It's the usual sensation of my nails poking my palms.”

“As for the flesh…it appears whole.” Archer’s finger feathers along where the burns were previously, his eyes never leaving her face. “Can you feel that?”

Saber instinctively tugs her hand away, giddy laughter bubbling out unprompted.

“Oh?” A wicked grin crosses Archer’s lips, and he wiggles his fingers menacingly. “Are you ticklish, perhaps?”

“I—I’m not sure,” she admits, already attempting to curl in on herself. “That was something for other children to experience.”

“…I see.” Archer slowly lowers his hands, his once-mischievous eyes now clouded over. “I should have expected that.” With a click of his tongue he returns to the initial subject. “Rejoice, for your hand is healed.”

“Thank you,” she says, unable to push away the slight twinge of disappointment in her chest. “So. Do you have any theories as to what Lancer’s surprise might be?”

“Aside from a meal…perhaps he found some sort of treasure.”

“Well,” Lancer says from the stairs, “As luck would have it, I can answer your question.” His wrists and hands are reddened from scrubbing away the remnants of blood and grease. Bracing his back on the stone railing, he inches downward step-by-step, careful not to drop the large tray of food he’s carrying.

Saber is on her feet in seconds, eager to see what Lancer’s bringing to them. As the food is hidden under a large iron lid, it’s hard to discern what it could be. That only makes it more fascinating. Her mouth waters at the potential prospects—will it be a single dish, or an entire feast?

“Just a moment,” Lancer calls out to an unspoken question, as at last he reaches the bottom of the stairs and edges toward the closest table.

“You needn’t rush,” Archer replies, standing slowly as if to prove his point. “Especially not while carrying something so precarious.”

“My thanks.”

Saber weaves her way through the other tables to the one Lancer’s chosen; she would hate to cause him trouble. “My hand has healed, Lancer—can you see?”

Lancer looks her over with as much care as any knight would his king; his smile when he sees no injuries is dazzling in its sweet warmth. “How wonderful! Then we can consider this a celebratory meal as well.”

Archer’s shadow crosses the floor long before he does. Perhaps he isn’t as hungry. Slow though he may be as he takes the scenic route around the Great Hall, he joins Saber and Lancer at the chosen table soon enough.

“Be seated,” Lancer insists as he places the tray at the table’s center with a _clunk._

“Gladly.” Saber sits near the edge of the long bench, legs tensed for her to rise and help Lancer if need be.

The wood _creaks_ and dips slightly as Archer takes his seat beside her. “As you toiled to make this meal, I shall forgo Uruk’s etiquette for today.”

“I’m honored.” Without further ado Lancer lifts the lid, showing his efforts at last.

In a huge earthen pot is a stew of venison, boiled potatoes, onions and what appears to be cabbage. Flanking the pot are three empty wooden bowls, and another slightly-smaller one of toasted apples marinated in honey.

“This stew is a dish from after my era,” he explains with a hint of sheepishness. “I read of it in the library.” He ladles out the steaming portions.

Archer stares at the stew’s ingredients as they bob about with boyish curiosity. “What are these golden things?”

“Potatoes,” Saber explains. “A vegetable import from a land called Peru.”

“Hmm. Intriguing.” Archer spoons out a chunk of venison and takes a wary nibble. His brows furrow as if he’s struggling to understand something. “This tastes…earthy. And the texture is smoother than I expected.” He takes a bigger bite and hums in approval as he swallows. “Did this creature eat nuts?”

Lancer nods. “Please taste the rest of the stew—you as well, Saber.”

“Of course.” Saber brings a spoonful to her lips and takes a bite. A hundred warm, savory tastes and textures hit her mouth in an instant. “Lancer…this is delicious!”

“Yes, it has a unique charm and taste. Well done, mongrel.”

A smile spreads across Lancer’s lips like a ray of sunlight parting through rainclouds. “Truly? That’s wonderful!”

“Of course,” Archer says with a knowing grin, “I should like to know how the hunt went—as would Saber.”

This simple suggestion sparks a new light in Lancer’s eyes; it’s an expression somewhere between boyish enthusiasm and a knight’s desire to impress his kings. “Of course.” He clears his throat. “When I first began my hunt, I thought I would return to you empty-handed. However…”

As Lancer falls into the rhythm of his tale and Saber and Archer grow ever more enthralled with the telling of it, Saber once again feels a strange, hollow twinge in her chest. By any measure, nothing is wrong. The fire is crackling pleasantly in the hearth. The rain is unable to reach her here. She is surrounded by wonderful company, and eating a delectable meal.

_Yes, this is nothing short of joyous. I should treasure it while I can._

\---

“So,” Saber says, as she and Archer stroll through the wife’s quarters after dinner, having just evaded the rain’s continuing onslaught. “How much pampering can Lancer endure, in your opinion?”

“Hmm…given how rigorous hunting can be, perhaps more than we might expect.” As they pass the solar—and the chessboard on the table—he moves a bishop forward and leaves the game behind. “You could call it a matter of timing.”

She nods. “Yes, he _would_ want to tend to us, rather than sit idly by. We simply need to watch for that ‘change’, I suppose.”

“You have something else on your mind.”

She chuckles. “Oh, it’s just a form of play my former Master spoke of. How did it go? It was something like…”

When she finishes explaining, Archer throws back his head delightedly and laughs. “Good. Very good! Lancer will find that _quite_ appealing.”

The conversation trails off as they make their way down the hall to the baths.

“This way, Saber,” Archer says, guiding her to the opposite bath from before. “We’ll need more room.”

As they round the corner, it’s a struggle to take in the new sight. “I suspect that won’t be an issue here,” she manages, looking about in awe.

Some things are familiar: the heated brownstone floor and walls, the scented pillar candles wafting rose and sandalwood through the air. Others are not: namely, an area for soaping up and a massive marble bath for washing. The “soap area” is covered in marble tile, with a wheeled shelf laden with a curious assortment of soap bottles and bars waiting to be used.

Slipping off her shoes, Saber wanders over to the shelf. “What scents would Lancer enjoy, I wonder?” Her fingers trail over each bottle—some are of modern plastic, others are clay or wood.

Archer chuckles. “I doubt he would notice the difference. Something plain should suffice.”

She hums in agreement, still looking through the shelf curiously. “Since I’ve never washed someone else before, I must practice.” She gestures toward the wooden stools in the corner. “So please, take one of those and sit.”

Archer’s shadow passes over her as he reaches the stools. Her attention drifts from the shelf to him.

There’s little need for him to bend over, displaying the well-formed curve of his backside. Nor does he need to cast a sideways glance in her direction, as if expecting her to press him against the wall and have her way with him any second.

They hold gazes for a long, taut moment. Each silently sizes up the other, waiting for a response. 

“I’ll need to disrobe first.” He picks up a stool with both hands, holding it against his waist.

“Then do so,” she commands, keeping her gaze firmly on the shelf.

The stool settles on the tiles with a _thunk._ “You mustn’t peek,” Archer jests.

“A knight never does.”

Metal chimes and fabric rustles behind her. It reminds her of flowing water. His shoes drop to the floor with a heavy _thud_.

“You may look now.”  

She takes a moment to survey him. Her gaze tracks the glint of sweat already trickling down his muscular chest, the slight tension in his splayed thighs, the white towel barely covering his waist, the anticipation in his ruby eyes.

“You should disrobe as well.” Archer smiles and rests his chin in his hand. “Shall I assist?”

“That is unnecessary,” she insists firmly, hooking a finger around one shoulder strap to pull it down.

“Slower, slower,” he coaxes with a sly grin. “Allow your lover a taste of what you plan to offer.”

Her heart swells unexpectedly at being deemed "lover". She gestures at him with her chin. “Yet _you_ told me not to look. Is the sight of me unique, then?”

He sits back, stunned. Then he claps a hand to his forehead and laughs with soft exasperation. “Ah, of course, I underestimated you yet again! The chivalrous honesty you and Lancer share is quite refreshing.”

“Thank you,” Saber says, and adds with slyness of her own “then I shall leave this dress on for now, to offer you that ‘taste’ you wanted.”

So saying, she takes a bar of plain soap and a washcloth and strides over to her willing practice dummy. She tries her hand at the voluptuous sway Archer performs so well…but it feels too ridiculous to continue further. _I’d best leave that to the senior practitioner._

Brushing her hand against Archer’s shoulder yields better results: he straightens and jolts up as if her touch burns. “I’m unharmed,” he insists, his ears slightly flushed.

“Good,” she whispers at the shell of his ear, merely to watch it redden further. With a soft laugh she comes to a stop behind him. “Then I shall wash your hair first.”

“You may wet it. My hands will suffice for the rest.”

“Ah, that’s right,” Saber recalls with a smile of sympathy, “excessive attention there unnerves you. What of your back?”

“…That is preferable.”  

The castle summons a silver pail of hot water, which she can easily hold with one hand. As she tilts the rim downwards, water slowly pours over Archer’s head, turning his hair a darker gold. It’s fascinating watching the rivulets trickle like rivers of silver down his supple shoulders and back. His skin turns cherry-red with the heat.

“Here,” she says, handing Archer the soap after thoroughly lathering the washcloth. Then she turns her attention to his back. Even through the cloth, she can feel his warm and smooth muscles rise and fall against her hand.

“Is something the matter?” he asks, a smile in his voice. “You’ve stopped.”

“No, nothing.” She shakes her head and focuses on gliding the washcloth across the curve of his spine.

His muscles twitch then relax, following the path of her touch. “Mm…stay there a moment.”

“Where?” She stops at his lower back. “Here?”

“Yes. There are myriad nerves here, all twining in one area. It’s—ah—rather sensitive…”

She swirls the cloth in a slow circle, smiling as he bows forward to give her more access. “Thank you for informing me. Does Lancer enjoy it here as well?”

Archer nods, still scrubbing his hair. “You may witness it for yourself soon.” He peers over his shoulder at her, his eyes closed to avoid getting soap in them. “You needn’t hold back. Be audacious!”

“Is that what you think?” She can see a hint of the toned curves of his backside beneath the towel. “I have restrained myself, to a certain degree.”

“Oh? How so?”

“…We should rinse your hair first.”

This time, when she pours another bucketful of water over his head, the soapsuds flow down his body like sea foam, crashing on the tiles’ shore. They soak her sundress as well, turning the fabric hot, soaked and slick.

Archer lifts back the hair from his face, seemingly satisfied. “Are you prepared? Then continue with your talk.”

Saber hums in agreement, changing the course of the washcloth from Archer’s lower back to his neck. His pulse thrums like a harp’s melody. “After some consideration,” she says, leaning forward to brush her chest against his spine, “I find your body pleasing. Indeed, as much as Lancer’s.”

“You flatter me.” There is a curious flatness to Archer’s tone, as if he’s holding something back.

 _Interesting._ She swirls the washcloth down to his chest, idly working the peaked tips of his nipples as she passes. “Does that trouble you?”

He chuckles and shakes his head. “This is _certainly_ audacious. Where does this train of thought lead, I wonder?”

Saber hums against his neck, easing the drenched cloth down until it reaches the swell of his hips. “No doubt where you expect it to,” she says dryly.

Archer smiles and leans into her touch—but not enough to unbalance her. “Predictability has its merits…especially from one such as you.”

“Ah, there you are,” Lancer’s voice calls out from the hallway door. “I found your note. I’m not…interrupting you two, am I?”

“Yes and no, I suppose.” Archer smiles and crooks a finger for Lancer to come closer. “We were just preparing for your arrival. Are we presentable?”

“Er…” It must be raining outside—Lancer’s hair and armor are drenched to the point of darkness. Despite that, his amber eyes are bright with curiosity. “…You look quite wet.”

Archer grins up at Saber. “Well—shall we use that ‘play’ you spoke of earlier?”

Saber wets her lips and nods. “Welcome back, Lancer.” She rests her hand at Archer’s waist, the better to frame him for Lancer’s benefit.

“What would you have first?” Archer adds, his voice a dulcet rumble. “Wine?”

“A bath? Or…” Saber fidgets. “…Or…”

“…Would you rather have _us_?” Archer speaks in a playful whisper, trailing his fingers along her cheek.

Lancer stares, his gaze flicking between them unsure of where to look. He heaves a sigh of good-natured exasperation. “You know the answer to _that_ well enough. To share a bath with my royal lovers…how have I earned this honor?”

“You made a surprise for us,” Saber says. “It seemed fair.”

“Then I shall take you up on that offer.”

“Splendid.” Archer rests his hands on his knees, looking ready to drum his fingers.

“It should be Lancer’s turn,” Saber points out.  

“That may be so,” Lancer says with a laugh and removes his gauntlets, keeping them away from any wetness. “However, I’d like to have my ‘revenge’ first.”

“You seemed to enjoy last night, mongrel. Were we mistaken?”

“I did. But it’s unfair if I’m the only one drowning in pleasure.”

Saber smiles. “This is our gift to you; use it as you wish.”

Nodding in thanks, Lancer makes to remove his top—and seems to reconsider. A wicked smile graces his lips. “Then I’ll take my time. Is that acceptable?”

There are no objections. Not that Saber could think of any to begin with.

Thus decided, Lancer releases the clasps on his waist armor. The metal buckles chime as he flicks one open with his thumb, then the other. As the leather falls back, still held in place by the buckles on his thighs, he has to crouch slightly to better reach them.

“I’m aware that I should sway in that manner Archer likes,” he says dryly, “but this is digging into my backside.” Once the last buckle is unfastened, he sets the intricate leather down beside his gauntlets.

“That is fine,” Saber assures him, watching the curves of his thighs flex.

Archer has a different opinion. “Be seated before you fall.”

“I have excellent balance, as you well know,” Lancer replies with a rare boast. To prove his point, he stands on one foot and lifts the other as if resting it on an invisible table. Unfaltering, his nimble fingers peel off his boot one inch at a time.

“Impressive,” Saber congratulates him, as the green-clad expanse of Lancer’s leg comes into view.  

He chuckles and ducks his head. “Thank you. I’ve had many years of practice.” After he pulls the boot free, he does the same maneuver for the other—a bit faster this time.

“Has your patience evaporated?” Archer teases, crossing a leg over his knee.

“More or less,” Lancer says with a grunt, wrestling out of his leggings and top with little fanfare. It’s soon clear why: his body is wracked with shivers.

“Fool!” Archer snaps, leaping to his feet and summoning a small army of towels onto Lancer’s shoulders. “Next time, inform us of your condition at once!”

Lancer sighs and hangs the excess towels on a nearby rack. “It was about to pass, now that I’ve disrobed.” He wraps the remaining towel about his waist briskly—leaving little time to view it. “Please be seated, Archer.”

“Not until _you_ cease shivering like a leaf in a storm.” Archer gestures imperiously toward the stool.

A spark of curiosity ignites in Saber. _Earlier, he reacted similarly. Does he worry more than his appearance suggests?_ She decides to keep such thoughts to herself.

Lancer smiles and shakes his head. “In order to get my revenge, I need you to stay seated, King of Heroes.”

“Humph. Rest assured, you already succeeded in unbalancing me. Allow us to wash you.”

“As you wish.” Lancer brings over two more stools with a spring in his step. “Saber, you need to sit as well.”

“What then?” she asks, as Lancer sets down both stools before Archer.

Lancer beams. “I’ll let you two act like mother hens for a bit. Does that seem fair?”

“…Oh. Yes, thank you.” She sits, still holding the washcloth.

“King of Knights…what would you have of me?”

After a moment, she makes her decision. “Help me disrobe.”

“Of course,” he says, and lifts his hands to the top buttons of her dress. Even though the fabric is soaked, he unbuttons the dress with ease, exposing the swell of her breasts. His skin has a slight chill, and she tries not to flinch.

“Apologies,” he says, and pauses to rub his hands together to warm them. “…There. Do they feel better now?”

With a nod she slips free of the sundress and tosses it away from their feet. Now only her underwear remains—and she sheds them with little fanfare. She heaves a sigh of relief. “Much better. They were beginning to itch.”

Though it’s obvious from the look in his eyes that he wants to pamper her further, he reins himself in. Without a word, he sits back on his stool and waits patiently to be cleaned. Shivers still wrack his body.

Archer sighs in disappointment and summons a fresh bucket of steaming hot water. “Close your eyes,” he warns just before tipping the bucket over Lancer’s head.

Lancer obeys him just in time—judging by the way his body jolts and then melts into the heat, he was expecting a cooler temperature. “Ah,” he sighs, tipping his head back in delight. His hair plasters to his forehead and neck. “How pleasant.”

“Soon, it will feel better still,” Archer says confidently, and pours liquid soap into his hands. “I can tend to Lancer’s hair.” He looks to Saber and grins slyly. “Clean whichever part of him you wish.”

Humming in amusement, she looks Lancer over. His pink skin has a darker flush from the hot water, and rivulets course down his neck and arms. Even his dark eyelashes are damp and glistening.

“I shall start with the back, then,” she decides aloud, only needing to lean forwards a short distance before reaching her destination. Touching Lancer's broad shoulders is pleasant, especially as they relax under the touch of the washcloth and her hands. As soapsuds accumulate along his skin, slipping down his spine, she can’t help but follow their path with her gaze.

“Do you see something intriguing?” Archer teases, still scrubbing away.

“…Somewhat.” Saber runs the cloth and her hand down Lancer’s back, marveling at the little curves and dips. Some are like Archer’s, yet some are deeper still. They remind her a bit of the valleys between mountains.

The further her and Archer’s hands explore, the more Lancer’s body softens like butter at their touch. It’s not something to incite desire (just yet). Rather, it gladdens Saber’s heart.

Judging by his contented sigh, Archer feels the same. “You need only relax, Lancer. Entrust everything to us.”

“…Everything?” Lancer mumbles sleepily. “I’d rather not. I still need my revenge at some point.”

“Ah, of course.” Saber sighs, but doesn’t press the issue. “Please savor this before doing your part.”

“Hmm. If you insist.”

The conversation fades away, replaced with the soft sounds of scrubbing. Saber’s focus narrows down to the task before her. By now, Lancer’s back is painted with frothy white suds—which are then washed away by another bucketful of hot water. _In that case, I should move on to the rest of him. But…_

“Lancer.” Her voice, though soft, crashes through the tranquil stillness. “Are you…sensitive from last night?”

He shifts in his seat, and behind his ears lies a flush from something other than hot bathwater. “…A bit, yes. Especially my—well, I’m sure you recall.”

“Yes. Then I shall be gentle.” As she says so, she carefully glides the washcloth around to his side, marveling at the firm ridges of his waist and the swell of his hip.

Lancer’s body spasms as soon as she touches it, followed by a muffled grunt.

“My apologies,” she says at once, worry curdling in her belly. “Here, is this better?” The cloth barely brushes his skin.

This time, he snorts, and claps a hand over his mouth in an attempt to stifle it.

“Ah, yes, now I recall,” Archer croons. His wicked smile sends a delicious frisson down Saber’s neck. “Lancer is ticklish!” He wiggles his fingers ominously—an attack is imminent.

“In that case…” Lancer goes on the offensive. His previously idle fingers now scurry like spiders along Archer’s exposed sides. “…Let’s see how ticklish _you_ are, King of Heroes!”

The once-peaceful bath devolves into a flurry of fingers and flailing limbs. Stools are overturned, and their occupants topple to the floor in undignified sprawls. Soap and washcloths slide madly across the floor. _Hopefully no one will slip—_

“I have you,” Lancer sings out, taking Archer by the waist and settling him in his lap. “Quick, Saber—attack while we have him!”

Unfortunately the previous “attack” was too swift for Saber to see. _I shall follow his reactions instead._ Kneeling down on the water-slick tiles, she reaches with some trepidation for Archer’s foot. The delighted twitch of his calves tells all.

Above her, Lancer growls playfully against Archer’s neck, his fingers dancing along the exposed skin of his chest. “You should struggle more, King of Heroes; otherwise this will be too easy.” To prove his point he grabs Archer’s wrists one-handed.

“Ha! That’s what I _intend_ to—”

Light as a cat’s step, Saber trails her fingertips along Archer’s sole, awaiting his reaction with wide eyes.

Archer’s words lurch to a halt. Then he sputters with laughter, his free, flailing foot just missing her head. Dripping wet and defenseless, his body quakes like a mountain during a landslide.

“Do you surrender, King of Heroes?” Saber asks, unable to keep the smile from her face.

“Never!” he yells proudly—before dissolving into mirth once again. “N-Not my toes,” he wheezes, “that’s underhanded!”

And now Saber knows her next destination. Indeed, her victim appears all-too-willing to aid in her endeavor, directing her hands with instructions almost incomprehensible beneath his amusement. The backs of Archer’s knees are his most vulnerable spot: he melts into breathless giggles at the lightest brush. His face has turned red in its entirety, though not as bright as his eyes.

It’s disarming in its sweetness. And intriguing.

“Do you surrender _now_?” she asks, even as curiosity swells in her at the thought of exploring yet more weaknesses.

His breaths fracturing, Archer shakes his head. Goosebumps have risen along his flesh, and his nipples are hard and flushed. 

“Very well.” Schooling her voice and expression, she drums her fingers along his thighs and listens carefully for tiny giggles and for each delighted shiver.

“King of Knights, you’re quite skilled at this,” Lancer remarks, now walking his free hand like a spider along the lower back of his willing victim.

“I merely follow his reactions, nothing more. If anyone is skilled, it’s _you_ , Lancer.”

Before Lancer can humbly deny such praise, a low and eager moan interrupts the conversation. “S-Saber.” Archer’s hips roll upward, slow and constant as waves against the shore. “Place your hand higher.”

Things are moving in a more intimate direction—not that Saber minds. Without a word, she eases her palm up his slick, warm thigh, underneath the towel still wrapped about his waist. His pulse trembles against her fingertips like a rushing current. Then…she touches something delicate and soft. Not something she expected.

Equally unexpected is the way his body jolts like it’s been burnt. “S-Saber—there is no need to fret, I’m unharmed. However, that area is…rather potent.”

Lancer licks a tantalizing stripe across Archer’s neck. “Ah, yes, ‘ _that_ area’. King of Heroes, if you would kneel—thank you. Try giving it a gentle kiss through the towel, King of Knights.”

Nodding, she dips her head just above where her fingers lie and presses tender lips to the terrycloth. There’s more bitter fabric to taste than skin—but the shiver of delight that wracks Archer’s body pays that price twice over. Another, firmer kiss, and his moans begin anew.

“Lovely,” she murmurs with a smile.

Lancer nods in agreement. “You can kiss him directly too, he enjoys that.”

“That I do—but get this wretched towel out of the way first, Lancer. My view must be unobstructed!”

“As you wish.”

Inch by teasing inch, the towel is pulled away, revealing Archer’s sex. Much to her surprise, there are no baubles adorning it, nor has it been gilded. Nor, thank heavens, is it some comically large monstrosity. It’s as sweetly-made as the rest of him: sheathed in a pink cocoon of foreskin, silken to the touch.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” He admires his own flesh with an excess of pride that’s somehow both annoying and charming.  

Saber wraps her hand around the base and gives as weak a stroke as she can. It’s smooth and hot against her palm. She chuckles as she surveys her good work: it’s not long before Archer’s arousal is plain to see, the tip red and glistening like a ruby.

“…How endearing. It matches your eyes, King of Heroes.”

Lancer stares at her as if she’s defeated an entire army in front of him. “How bold of you!”

Archer looks just as surprised—though that may be due to her touch. “Have you forgotten my—”

“—Of course not.” Saber grimaces in distaste. “But the soap will taste bitter!”

Archer shakes his head. “Not at all. If you ask the castle for the soap to be flavorless, I’m certain it will oblige. In fact, it may have done so just now.”

“…You have a point.” Even so, the potential for a disgusting flavor to coat her tongue lingers like a foul cloud around the proceedings. “I—I shall try.”

“I have faith in you,” Lancer assures her.

Ducking her head back down to Archer’s swelling testes, she softly brushes her lips against them. “Oh! These are…hmm.” The tip of her tongue peeks out to give the sac a short lick. “A bit tart.”

Soft flesh glides against her lips and mouth, sending sparks of pleasure dancing through her body. The scent and texture of him threatens to overwhelm her senses.

Archer squirms. “Saber, y-your breath is tickling me!”

“Oh, is it?” Pursing her lips, she slowly blows cool air over his aroused flesh and marvels at the goosebumps that arise after. Hot air produces more shivers than the chilly breath before—how curious. “I thought that was what you wanted.”

Archer’s fingers flex, yet he makes no move to free himself. “…Perhaps you could fit one into your mouth.”

She sizes up his full sac with a critical eye. “That—could be possible.” That tart taste returns to her tongue as she explores the area more fully, emboldened by his body’s delighted quivering.

If her showering gentle kisses and licks upon Archer’s flesh seems more worshipful than one would expect of a king, then that is merely an outsider’s view. What drives her is simply to see the King of Heroes unravel at her touch.

Lancer’s free hand must be moving lower; Archer’s waist sways at the new contact. “May I serve you here, King of Heroes?”

Archer hums in pleasure. “Revere me well, mongrel.”

If the sounds are any indication, Lancer received a new washcloth from the castle. Droplets and suds trickle down Archer’s abdomen and thighs, giving the golden king’s skin further sheen. A thick line of muscled thigh dances against Saber’s palm.

She never appreciated a man’s beauty in life. Or rather, she never turned idle thoughts into concrete actions. It takes some adjusting to.

“Am I interrupting you, Saber?” Lancer asks, a concerned furrow in his brows. He, too, is beautiful flushed and dripping like this. Even without the Love Spot’s effects there is something of the rosy tint of dawn about him.

 _…Oh dear, I’m losing focus._ She lifts her head, hoping her red and tingling cheeks aren’t obvious. “Er, no, not in the slightest!”

“Good.” Lancer’s brows smooth out as he gives her a tender smile. “I’m to clean Archer now, but you may continue with your explorations.”

A nod. “Of course, and thank you.”

The washcloth slides down along Archer’s belly to where a nest of pubic hair should be. After a pause, the cloth moves onward, from base to tip and back. Suds drip tantalizingly down the firm length.

But what intrigues Saber the most is the way Archer’s foreskin flows back and forth about the head with Lancer’s movements, as if it were clay being kneaded. Lancer’s sex doesn’t have this much skin sheathing it—and Merlin’s gift may have had none; she can’t recall. Her eyes track the fluid gestures, fascinated.

“Intriguing, isn’t it?” Archer continues to preen, even as a charming flush rises to his cheeks and neck.

Lancer takes his time lathering the shaft that bobs with his touch. “Most certainly. I could never pass the chance to worship you, King of Heroes.” He stirs the edge of Archer’s foreskin with a finger as the King of Heroes’ body rocks in time. 

“Mongrel—mongrel, I demand you release my hands this instant!” Once his command is heeded, he flexes his fingers to bring feeling back to them before taking the washcloth from Lancer’s hands. “If you wish to have your revenge, then take Saber’s place.”

“…Oh.” Saber is unable to hide her disappointment. “Then what shall I do?”

Archer smirks and strokes her cheek with the back of his hand. “You can direct Lancer as you see fit. Does that suit you both?”

Saber and Lancer both nod in accord.

“Before we begin, however,” Saber says, the words threatening to spill out like an overturned goblet of wine, “I would—have a taste of you.”

There’s a pause, as if once again Archer is taken aback by her forwardness. And then, swirling a thumb along his tip, he comes away with a silvery glaze coating the pad. The candlelight casts it in a golden glow.

“Here,” he says with a voice so low and delicate it sends a shiver up Saber’s back. “In that case, I shall grant you the taste you desire.”

Nodding, she inches forward and allows his thumb to enter her mouth. The initial brush of his flesh against her tongue sends sparks through her mind. _This is…sweet? Why?_ That familiar tang lies underneath the flavor’s surface, yet never quite rises to the top. _Perhaps the apples we had for dessert is the cause…_

“How is it, King of Knights?” Lancer’s question ghosts against her ear.

Saber hums in pleasure, unable to make a coherent sentence in this state. Her mouth tingles with each scorching taste of Archer. It takes remembering that this is Lancer’s moment for her to remain focused.

“Mongrel, your eyes are dark with lust…splendid. Perhaps I’ll tease you two a moment more—”

“Please,” Lancer says firmly, pressing quick and insistent lips to where the rolling hills of Archer’s knuckles join. “This time, I don’t wish to wait.”

Archer chuckles and pulls his thumb from Saber’s mouth, still dripping wet. “As a reward for your honesty, I’ll allow you your revenge.” As if giving Lancer a treat, he guides his firm member toward Lancer’s mouth.

“Start with a kiss,” Saber instructs, moving to the side slightly to give Lancer room to work.

Lancer obliges with a feather-light brush of his lips against the slippery tip. “Mm…there _is_ a certain sweetness to it today.” He looks up at Archer beneath his eyelashes, only hinting at the gold beneath. “Were you awaiting this, King of Heroes?”

“That expression…you wish to ignite my passion, hmm?” Archer’s throat bobs as if holding something back. “You needn’t exert yourself, mongrel—I assure you, you’re succeeding admirably.”

“Thank you,” Lancer replies between kisses. The crimson tip of his tongue charts the sensitive areas he knows so well. “Mm…yes, you’ve grown larger for me…!”

Archer’s eyes glitter with mirth as he whimpers, his hips trembling with exertion. “Good, mongrel,” he keens, as he’s stroked at a pace that must be agonizing in its slowness. “You feel splendid—”

“Slower,” Saber orders, and smiles wickedly when Archer quakes with desperate tremors.

In truth, Lancer needs little instruction. He knows all the little strokes and licks to make Archer’s sex flush and strain; how to engulf down to the base and squeeze what can’t fit just firmly enough to keep Archer from finishing. When he bobs up and down, his curl sways in time, brushing across Archer’s quivering belly. He whimpers as he works, his beautiful, longing eyes proclaiming his own desperation. 

Even so, he heads Saber's orders. Again and again, he pulls back just as Archer’s body tenses for a release that Saber refuses to grant him.

However, Archer has his own ways to tease. Unlike Lancer, there’s an element of artifice to his sounds and body language. He may lower his head submissively, let himself be teased and tormented to the brink of release before being dragged back again, whimper and cry out as if this is his first night. But it’s merely play. Beneath all that, there’s no doubting his title as King of Heroes.

Which makes it as potent as any enchantment.

Saber’s breath quickens, gusting against Lancer’s face. “Gods, he’s at his limit now—”

Lancer moans an affirmative. Archer’s silvery wetness slicks his chin, drips down like rain onto the tiles below.  

“Saber…mongrel…!” Archer’s hips jolt as again Lancer draws back at the last second. “Enough—I must—” His voice has lost that artifice; only delicious desperation remains.

This is their doing, and Saber revels in it.

“Then do so,” she orders, her once-stern voice now drenched in pleasure. “Spill forth for me, Archer.” It becomes a mantra in her mind: _Spill, spill, spill_ , as Lancer showers him with increasingly-eager kisses. Her eyes refuse to leave his face. This time she wishes to see his climax unobstructed.

Archer’s breathing grows ragged, his body aquiver with hungry tremors. “Where”—his chest bounces wildly with his breaths—“would you have it?”

Lancer swallows him down one last time in a gesture of delicious greed.

That is enough. With a sigh of pure bliss, Archer bends forward, hips quaking with the force of his release. His hands cradle Lancer’s head, as if there is something precious to behold behind his gaze. Then his eyes float closed, his senses fully enraptured by the climax shuddering through him.

Lancer frees Archer’s member from the sweet prison of his mouth, gasping for air. Saliva and pearls of seed drip from his face—only to be licked up before it can escape. “King of Knights,” he says in a voice thick with lust and satisfaction, “join me. This is your reward as well.”

Not quite comprehending, Saber leans forward as Lancer gives Archer another, firm stroke. _Oh…it hasn’t ended…_ She becomes awash in liquid white. Hot wetness coats her cheeks and chest like a king’s colors. The sensation of it electrifies her flesh—at last, they brought this gourmand of pleasure to the brink, just as he has for them.    

“King of Knights,” Lancer says Saber’s title as reverently as a prayer. “Allow me.”

She looks at him through a dreamy haze, still off with the fairies. “Hmm? …Oh.” He must mean to wash her. “You may.”

Nodding his thanks, Lancer tilts his head forward and licks a wet, tingling stripe across her cheek. “It would be a waste to have it dry.” A faint tremble belies the propriety in his voice. The washcloth in his hand moves to her opposite cheek, to wipe away what his tongue cannot reach.

“I concur.” Archer has recovered his senses. “How do you feel, Saber?”

It takes her a moment to answer. Her fingers roam idly over the flushed, tingling flesh of her breasts, scooping up the remnants of Archer’s seed as she goes. “Proud,” she says at last, holding out her glistening palm to Lancer with an inviting smile. “At last, we have our ‘revenge’.”

“You have more than that,” he retorts, amused. “You’re flushed and quivering down to your toes!”

“…I am?” Yes, a quick glance at her body confirms it. Needing to look somewhere else, she trains her gaze at the wall behind Archer. “Oh dear. I—I daresay I was too lenient—”

“You are well aware that isn’t true,” Archer soothes, smiling invitingly. “You have something else you desire, do you not?”

Lancer cleans her hand with exquisite attentiveness; the velvet warmth of his tongue and lips tickles her sensitive skin. “Shall we pleasure you as well, Saber?”

She considers mentioning one of her fantasies, but opts to wait. “Er…my sex is oversensitive from earlier. For now I would rather be washed, nothing more.”  

“Of course! I didn’t intend to leave you waiting, Saber.”

“That is fine.” She tempers her words with a smile of her own. “I appreciate the assistance, Lancer.”

Lancer clears his throat. “—If I may, I have an idea. Archer and I can wash you in the bath; that way none of us will catch a chill. What do you think?”

“Your idea has merit, mongrel.”

“That it does.”

“My thanks.”

At last, they make their way to the bath proper. Saber enters first, the pleasantly warm water enveloping her in bliss as she sinks down to her neck. The water ripples and churns into a flash of cream-white froth as Archer slides in after her, followed by Lancer.

“There’s a ledge to sit on in the center,” Archer says—just in time for Saber to bump her knee on it.

Pain throbs up Saber’s leg, though she doesn’t let it show. Her knee is merely bruised; it will heal soon enough. She sits without further incident. The ledge is smoother than expected against her backside and calves. Fortunately, there’s little chance of her slipping.

Lancer and Archer flank her front and back respectively, not bothering to sit. It’s a bit worrisome.

“Are you not enjoying the water?”

“This way, we can stretch our legs,” Lancer explains. “At least, that was my motivation.”   

“And I, for one, find this angle most enjoyable.” Archer trails nimble fingers along Saber’s scalp to her nape, as gentle as a kiss. “Now then…where shall we wash first?”

“My hair, please.” She closes her eyes and waits patiently. A moment later, hot water pours over her head, drenching her locks so that they plaster to her skin like wet silk.  

“It looks like gold leaf,” Lancer says softly, smoothing back her bangs from her face. He laughs, briefly touching her cowlick as it droops under the water’s weight. “And this little one is persistent as ever!”

She smiles and shakes her head. “It always is. I gave up on forcing it down with its brethren long ago.”

Archer toys with it, turning it from side to side like an antenna scoping out its surroundings. “It grants you a certain charm.”

“How so?”

“In a manner of speaking, it illustrates your determination. Oh, and it bounces about when you walk. But that’s neither here nor there…”

Saber wants to ask why Archer brought it up in the first place—but that train of thought is interrupted by the soothing sensation of two pairs of hands soaping up her head and hair. It’s not unlike the scalp massage Archer gave her, though this is a bit more forceful due to her hair needing to be untangled now and then. _Even so…it feels wonderful._ Hot suds trickle down her neck, pleasantly slippery.

“Rest your head on my chest if you need to,” Lancer says, wiping excess suds from her ears. “Leave everything to us.”

Even as she’s doubtless heard those words many times now, they still cover her heart in gentle happiness. There is no need to refute such kind intentions. Accepting Lancer’s offer, she relaxes against his firm breast. The rhythm of his heartbeat is as gentle and soothing as the rain outside. 

“Now for a rinse.” Archer’s warning is mixed with amusement as he pours another bucket over her head, drenching both her and Lancer in the process.

“How strange,” she says with a laugh, “we’ve moved from playing like children to lover’s play, and now…whatever this would be.”

“Each has their pleasure. Wouldn’t you agree, mongrel?”

Lancer hums in agreement. “Speaking of play…someone here has yet to be tickled.” It’s spoken so casually one might easily miss the playful threat lurking beneath.

“…That may be so.” Saber’s pulse quickens. “That was not afforded to me as a child.”

“O-Oh. I see.”

Archer clicks his tongue. It seems he doesn't wish to repeat the scene in the Great Hall. “Mongrel, in order to achieve your goal, one needs a certain… _tone_.”

“‘Tone’? In what way?”

“Like so.”

Something slippery yet muscled presses flush against her back—Archer’s chest. His heartbeat is slow and steady against her skin. Even as she expects it, surprise jolts through her as Archer dips his head down to her reddening ear.

“Saber,” he croons, his breath hot and ghosting along the shell of her ear, “are you ticklish?”

An uncharacteristic giggle bubbles up from inside her like champagne. “I-I’m unsure!” She fights to keep her voice level as the hairs at the back of her neck stir.

Lancer’s eyes brighten with amusement. “Oh-ho. Then shall we find out together?”

Saber makes a halfhearted attempt to squirm away, already laughing.

Alas, her wrists are held captive in Archer’s hand; his free fingers crawl like a spider across her neck. “Ah, you’re weak here, I see.”

“What about this?” Lancer trails a finger along the curve of her side, chilly shivers following in his wake.

Saber giggles and thrashes about like a pike on a hook, her feet flailing right into Lancer’s hands. “It—it feels strange! Ah, m-my feet—you knave—!”

By the time she catches the look shared between her “tormentors”, it’s too late. Her weak points grow endlessly under their playful touch—whether it’s the backs of her knees, the tiny spaces between her toes or the hollows of her armpits, the most unexpected places prove unbearably sensitive. It is fortunate Archer’s holding her still, else she slip off the ridge.

“What a darling laugh you have,” Lancer says with unconcealed fondness, his fingers so relentless in their wild dance over her soles that her flesh has gone numb.

Such praise is impossible to refute with her lungs burning as they are. “St-stop, _please_ —!”

Archer makes a point of sighing against Saber’s ear, his breath sending one last jolt of giggles through her. “Very well. You truly are a sensitive one.”

Lancer eases Saber’s feet back into the water and gives her space. “We should play again sometime.”

Saber nods, panting hoarsely for breath. With time her pulse ceases it’s mad racing—though it feels as if even the slightest brush on her skin would set it into motion again. _Hopefully not._

“Was it as you expected, King of Knights?”

“It was enjoyable for awhile,” she admits, freeing her wrists from Archer’s grip and rubbing them in idle thought. “But soon it grew unbearable.”

“I concur.” Archer chuckles. “Even so, it was amusing.”

The conversation drifts off as they focus on washing themselves, simply enjoying each other’s presence.

Saber idly considers the seasons to come, and the festivities she could share with Archer and Lancer. _Christmastime will be a particular treat—Lancer celebrated Yuletide, no doubt, while Archer existed long before either holy day. For once, we could introduce_ him  _to new joys…!_ A grin tickles at her lips.

“Something’s amused you,” Lancer says, grinning as well.

Saber breaks out of her trance. “Oh, it was—well, it concerned the coming seasons.” She leans over to Lancer and whispers “Has Archer experienced Christmas before?”

“You mean Yule?” Lancer whispers back. “Well, no—I kept it simple, just the Yule log and feast. Are you planning something…?”

“That depends upon how long you two intend to stay here.”

Lancer sighs, lowering his head sadly. “…I wish we knew the answer.”

Archer trails his fingers through the water, his eyes unfocused as he sinks into thought. “In the end, the Throne of Heroes will decide. How and when it considers us recovered from our pain is beyond us.”

“And so,” Saber murmurs, “all we can do is cherish our time together while we can.”   

Soapsuds glisten and tremble on her flushed skin like molten opals. As she watches them pop out of existence, one of her fantasies returns to her. This time she doesn't wait. _Speaking it aloud may be sweet enough..._  

“After the bath,” she says softly, “there is something I would ask of you two. Is that alright?”

“Anything,” Archer assures her. “Whatever pleasure you desire.”

Lancer rubs the back of his neck and glances down humbly. “I can’t offer such a claim, but I shall do my best to accommodate you.”

“Thank you both,” she says, not hiding the warmth in her voice. She straightens her back and considers. “If my wish causes offense I apologize in advance.” Then, with a self-deprecating laugh, “Or perhaps my limited experience is to blame for such a thought.”

“You’re stalling,” Archer and Lancer chastise her gently.

“Oh, very well.” She takes a deep breath. Exhales slowly. “To be plain, I—I wish to be filled.” Just saying the desire aloud is intoxicating.

Archer tilts his head, strands of hair falling to one side as delicately as snow. “Where?”

“…My sex. Perhaps in a roundabout way it will help me understand what both of you will enjoy. And it feels taboo…in a pleasant way.”

Lancer and Archer look at her then at each other, their eyes wide. Then they convene, huddled together like birds on a snowy day.

It’s difficult not to feel a twinge of worry. _What if neither shares my desire? What if I find it unpleasant after all?_ (That such concern should even come up in the first place speaks more than she wishes to admit.)

Finally they come to an agreement, and go to stand half-submerged before her.

Lancer speaks first. “We trust your abilities, King of Knights. If we”—his cheeks redden and he clears his throat—“gave you instructions, you would comply easily.”

Saber’s throat feels dry as well. “Th-thank you.”

“I hope you had other reasons for wanting such a thing,” Archer jests.

“Y-Yes, of course! Those books assured me that penetration would be pleasant…with the right partner.” She tilts her head and smiles proudly. “I’m certain you are the right men for that task.”

“Who would you prefer?” Archer asks, despite everything in his posture and expression saying he wants the answer to be him.

“Prefer…?”

“You may be too weary afterwards for another partner,” Lancer explains.

This takes her by surprise. After deliberating, she finds an in-between answer. “That would depend upon how I feel at that moment.” An icy shiver dances across her neck. “It’s growing cold in here. We should dry off.”

Lancer nods and climbs out of the bath, his skin slick and shining like a jeweled statuette. “We can use the bedchamber here.”

“I-If I may…” This part of her wish somehow seems more taboo than anything sexual ever could. “…I would rather allow you into my chambers. We might be drenched along the way, and the bed may be too small, but—”

White and fluffy terrycloth falls over her face, obscuring her vision. It’s a towel, and whoever gave it to her gently pats her hair dry with it; their hands are wet and warm.

“—Your chambers, huh.” The teasing tenderness in Lancer’s voice is as potent as a kiss. “How did we receive this honor?”

“Well…” Saber fidgets. “…Night by night, my bed grew cold. And I should like to feel the warmth of your bodies against mine as we sleep.”

Archer chuckles, his arm brushing her shoulder companionably. “To spend a cold night like this by your side…that _is_ something to treasure. We shall make it worth your efforts!”

“I’m not concerned about that,” is Saber’s dry response. “I only hope my quarters will be to your steep standards.”

“If he complains, I’ll scold him,” Lancer assures her with a grin.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! :D Feedback is appreciated. 
> 
> A side-note: In F/GO (and even UBW to an extent) it's said that Saber can become a Heroic Spirit, hence why here she's in the Throne of Heroes. (Perhaps she has duel citizenship in both Avalon and the Throne? It could work. ^^;)


End file.
